Better Dig Two Graves
by Misdiagnosed Ghost
Summary: Prompt: The Legion wins the first Battle of the Dam, and the human soul is equivalent to the spoils of war. Warnings: Non-Con/Rape. (Will later follow Honest Hearts.)
1. Prologue

Chapter 1: Prologue

 **Summary** :

Not much is said about Courier Six. There are stories, however, of a bright-eyed girl who took the role as Death; the Ace of Hearts. And, for the longest time, her name was something uttered over bonfire – passed around as some foreign tale, a ruthless, vengeful spirit for the weak – a damning plague that promised the unveiling of the apocalypse, just by the shift of her hand.

She wrought the Division, and disappeared.

She was just one woman who held vigil with a stray eyebot, roaming the sands, dealing her hand at history; she's gathered a band who opposed the single banner in red, and marched headlong in the thick of battle, bracing her rifle as her lone flag.

Her funeral shroud.

The Legion, militaristic and damnable, knows more about her; they've faced her with zealous stride, giving in ammunition, robbed of young lives; she would make an accepting prize to whoever held her leash. They, however, had no idea who she was, or what she looked like – they didn't know her gender for a long time.

Five years has passed since the first Battle of the Dam, and while the NCR forces sacrificed, it was all in vain; the Courier, only eighteen at the time, watched in horror by her father's side; they're former raiders, claiming land and making an honest living on trade route – only to be barred from any equality once that red flag blotted the skies and the Dam ran in dark blood.

"I'll kill 'em." That girl would tell her father, "I'll kill 'em all."

-Prologue-

Death sits upon her perch on an old rotted log, watching the horizon fade into a timeless night – listening out for her eyebot's ominous buzz; ED-E hovers and analyzes, beeps conversation to his master, appeased by the quiet nature the Mojave supplied.

A bonfire burns bright, rivaling thousands of stars; embers ascend into bleak oblivion. Six drinks warm chicory by the fire, gray eyes mapping the flickering of dancing flames. Her expression is blank to the cold air of a desert night, lips dry by the weather – mindlessly running the tip of her tongue along her bottom lip, slowly replying back to ED-E who wished for banter to cease the deafening silence.

ED-E is a little louder in his buzzing when a shot fires in the distance, not at her, but at someone. And while her bonfire burns bright in the middle of nowhere, she stands up with an air of grace, retiring her mug of warm brew for her sniper that lay by her boot. With given height, Six levels her scope, panning out in the direction of the shot, catching a vision of dancing torches held by the grubby hands of her adversary.

With a sigh, Six drops the scope and reaches for her helmet with one hand, snapping the clasps by her neck to hold the armor down tight with a hushing hiss of escaping air. She can hear the screams of the innocent on the edge of the world, near the deathbed of the setting sun, kicking at her fires with sand on her heel, smothering the life out of the flames; she's playing vigilante tonight.

By the temple of her helmet, she dials the mask, the red tint of her lens illuminates against the unsettling night, scoping prey with sharper perception and young hands.

She sees two caravan boys; tied and alone with dead brahmin. Like malicious animals, legionaries crowd unmarked supply. Legion are pretty good at taking care of their own supply lines, Six gave them credit for that; lone companies are usually ambushed for their goods, or killed by fiends who survived this long after the Legion march for extermination on the weaker class. This is not the first caravan party she's rescued, probably won't be her last by the sheer number of recruitment and devotion to their one-nation-in-the-Mojave environment.

Six's fingers curl dangerously over her steel, boots sliding down the shift of sands; she sticks close to shadow, close to the lands – instructing ED-E to hold back and wait for her signal. She tramples over desolation and old root, hiding in the brush of thin vines and old vegetation that curled up like angry hands. She lives by tactic and karma, schooling her breath not to escape her distorted respirator from her gasmask.

The burning lens of her mask dims the closer she gets, finding better range and the possibility to killing one of the four men; but the statistics didn't look good: four men and one woman with too much pride. She can hear the sickening cackle, and the honeyed words of promise in domination. One of the legionaries touch a caravan boy, suggestive and evil – hands that didn't belong and the image makes Six itch to pull her lucky trigger.

Six lives her life on these lands, finding friends in unexpected places; she's heard and seen a lot of hell, anything repulsive doesn't surprise her anymore, she expects it. She's a wanted woman by Legion law, tried for treason and blasphemy, a woman with too much time that refuses to think about the place she belongs. In her reign of terror, dubbed the boogieman in young Legion boy stories, she stalks the unexpected and takes them out in droves – setting up impressive militia; her father taught her well, told her she was never meant to be some breeder under a Legion official. And, while she is not fond with the taxation of NCR, she works as their courier – smuggling information and contraband weapons, modded to be just as powerful as God's shiny revolver.

She marauds the Wastes, bracing the warmth of an unforgiving sun, dressed in blacks and red lens that color her mask. She tells her followers that New Vegas will be hers, she'll purge every damn Legion influence out and execute the stragglers.

Those she protect tell her she's crazy, others applauded her hell-bound nature, promising their gun in her war once the time was right; she's shot at Caesar, she's waved her gun at his Legate, screamed for their damnation over hills; many would expect Six to feel a sense of bravery when those two men looked back at her with disdain. It didn't. She's horrified and outnumbered, and one day the evil, who's garnished in reds and golds, will challenge her and consume her whole.

Her hands hesitate, cocking her gun back, finding comfort in the solid coil; she has a clear headshot in her range. She swallows her anxiety down, finding renewed revolting determination to fulfill her promise to her father.

Fate, however, had a different motive for tonight; just when she's about to unleash her justified execution, one of the caravan boys calls out to the Legion men and warns them about her looming figure in the distance; Six is flabbergasted in the face of youthful betrayal, jolting and bringing the scope of her sniper down; she takes a shot and manages to kill one of the men before their hasty hunt and her unnerving retreat.

This rescue display is a setup; they knew she had a weakness to extend her helping hand, they knew she was in proximity to find them.

The place is rigged, and a sea of red emerges like the dead from the sands; still, Six believes in a fight in the face of defeat; she proves so by the precautious slide of her hunters blade that slips from her duster sleeve, throwing her long-distance gun to the ground and retrieving her shotgun by the holster strapped to her thigh.

The weapons are knocked from her hands by a lone lasso, then more ropes follow, bringing Death to the shores of Hell – forcing her to look up at Hell's Gates, harbored in the eyes of cold blue: Malpais Legate. She can hear ED-E in the distance, victory music signaling rescue and she screams out – warning her bot to stay away and fly away. But faithful nature is the root of folly, and a single gunshot halts Six's reality; she struggles against her bindings, fist bone-pale under her dark glove with the call of war, and she's seething for that familiar feeling of revenge.

She jerks away from foreign hands, Legion dogs aiding their second master when he calls for the removal of her helmet; he lists her offensives, voice keeping monotone when his men manage to unclasp her helmet and harshly pull away; her red hair is unruly, eyes narrowed in promising murder. She still pulls from her restraints, held to the blasted earth by multiple, cowardly hands.

"You're a goddamn abomination," Six reels, voice powerful; her feminine voice has the men around her laughing, mocking her for gender and stature; they promised to degrade her and use her, she wouldn't face death – not yet, no. What she had coming would be worse than death. "A fuckin' dog. Caesar's bitch; all of you are guilty." She can hear the murmur of bets; they're starting to call keeps on who will fuck her first, and whose son she'll bear.

And that's what finally breaks her.

War is war, and rape is a tool used in war; it didn't matter on gender. All vile individuals fall into animalistic ethic, wanting to turn one over and having them submit in invasion.

After the Legate read her transgressions, he goes quiet and his dogs follow; with well-placed fear, Six observes the party, the decoy caravan men and the Legate. With shuttering anxiety, she can't help the loathing, mirthless chuckle that escapes her lips before a butt of a stranger's rifle knocks her out cold.


	2. Bones to build with

Chapter 2: Bones to build with

When Six arose from her forced dreamless sleep, she can taste blood and smell the sting of iron; she sniffs with the reaction, dazing in and out; eyes glittering over manmade bonfires. She can hear voices, a sword on the grind stone, and broken laughter. Her body stiffens, and finds she is not connected with the earth, but in a unique parallel – she's looking down, watching the back of heels make their journey within a camp unbecoming to her.

Her weak arms dangle, making their feeble crawl up the spine of a bulletproof vest; her eyes narrow to the drawl of nails digging into the back of her thigh: a warning. She's braced with realization that these monsters stripped her from the weight of her armor, leaving her clad in her undershirt and weathered denim.

Six jolts with the inner drum of a fight, war nipping at her heels, and with weak protest she struggles from her capture's grip – unadulterated loathing in how the stranger's shoulder pressed into her stomach, carrying her like some wild animal that he killed; she'd be damned if she played dead in the clutches of the enemy; she'd be damned to already be tucked in the embrace of enemy territory – where the slaves looked at her with shunned pity, and the Legion dogs glowered with riddling amusement.

Six's body clenches, knees digging into this man's chest; there was no yield, no stagger in pace, and the fight slowly bleeds from her veins. She's exhausted, reeling with the aftershocks of being knocked back a peg with the blunt end of a rifle; she's dozing, the biting nails at her thigh retreats - rolling gentle fingertips over the abuse in her flesh.

With static pause, Six begins to list off concussion symptoms to herself; it wasn't like being shot in the head twice, but she's still dancing with that dreaded delay in her body. She relaxes, fading in and out, vision abstracted by the blur of movement and the display of vivid colors; she's sick, she hates the ringing in her ears, and she's absolutely alone with no Virgil to guide her through the levels of Hell.

Six awakens again to the strained voice of a greeting, "Ave" Ave signals hail, or the practical translation of be well, or farewell. And, as a normal resident to the great Mojave, this greeting doesn't make a lick of sense; but the world is old and haunting, and men of authority always want to retell the tragedies through the typical art of war, because to them: war never changes. And, with technicality, they're not wrong, but war is different: men take different roads, languages change, and the mindset of humans eviler than the next; genocide is genocide, and men will always want to pillage and dominate the next generation of broken elite and underdog heroes.

Tent flaps are pulled, and Six finds herself deeper in the belly of Hell, listening out for the Devil's voice; she's delusional, catching glancing eyes and hollow-point grins. There isn't much grace once her captor sets her down on the ground, and with horrid revelation she finds that her hands and ankles have been bound the entire time.

"A courier is caught, and once she's brought before me, she's really not that impressive," Caesar tends to hold power from his damning perch; his expression holds little amusement, dully making way for showy greetings; must be a tyrant thing. "You're not so mighty under all that black armor; and, to think, younger slaves who've heard of you talk about you being some entity who robs life from the very bones of my Empire."

"Bones," Six croaks, numbly attempting to pull her hands away from each other, "Bones can break with the right stress, Caesar-baby. Ah, your hospitality never ceases to amaze me. Those new furs? I like 'em." Her head tilts, eyes never averting from malicious ones. The old ruler grins wickedly, baring weight into the structure of his gaudy chair, one leg crosses over the other.

"I don't say this often, Courier, but you're a smart woman."

"Glad we both can agree on somethin'."

An evil slither of a chuckle escapes the man's lips, "In the military, as in any organization, giving the order might be the easiest part. Execution is the real game. Execution, in your case, seems too easy of a punishment for your transgressions, Courier," Caesar begins on a mild note, pleasure never eluding him; there seems to be a link of perversion in the art of domination and deceit when it came to the ramblings of this old man.

"Why not," Six jested, bringing both of her bound hands up in defense, "Execution seems to be overrated. No creativity in that, no sir. A feeble execution is but another phrase for a bad execution; and, here I was, hoping I'd determine your fate before you determined mine." She shrugs, but Caesar ignores her rambles.

"My Legate has more quarrels with you than I do," Caesar extends his treacherous hand, and Six tilts her head back up at the man who sieged her; he's a brute of a man. And, it was true, Six has expressed her hatred out towards the Legate more than any other Legion official; he seemed to always be there in her foiling attempts, watching her set slaves free and warn tribes about the red flag. She's shot him once, took him down by the knee, and she had hoped to cripple him in his reign, but the monster never seemed to stop roaming this earth. There's madness in his blue eyes, power-hungry and always ready to devour; he stands out among his troops, a stubborn look on his face, never donning that Legion uniform – only the principles and moral.

"Malpais Legate," Six inquired with fabricated interest, "Oh, we're old friends, ain't that right?" She jerks her head in his direction; her silver-tongue will one day get the best of her; perhaps today was that day. That silent monster prowled in front of her, roughly gripping the ropes to her bindings; she cringes by the force, almost pulled forward by the exchange. She's found that his expression never changes even in the tides of winning and losing; he definably didn't make a big deal when Six attempted to blow his kneecap off by the mechanical power of her sniper that one time.

"I purpose servitude," says the Legate, voice rolling on monotones, deep and powerful. "She's cut profit among your Legion, she'll pay for her crimes. I'll hold claim. I'll hold responsibility."

"Not the kinda deal I was thinkin' about -," Six is cut off by the gravity of the ropes jerking her forward; she loses balance, knees and elbows digging into the fine weave of a rug. She bites off on that, defiance a part of her better nature and she tugs back hard on her own ropes, cursing his name, while they negotiated her life.

"Something personal for you, Legate?" Caesar mulls over his Legate's claim, "Make a redheaded woman pregnant, and the whore is bound to bore heathen children." The old man calls her a whore like the title was a self-representation of her worthlessness; his bawdy thoughts holds no value, however, his damning eyes did hold vexation. And, with that alone, only spurs her on with her promise to her father to kill every last one of these creatures in red.

Hell, she'll take execution over being some legionaries' personal bitch.

"We've drilled obedience before. No. Death would be too easy for our Courier. She's young, still. Susceptible to being broken. In an expanse of time, she'll be punished for her wrongdoings," the Legate brings his case, laying out simple words that would soon reflect on prolonged suffering; and, with some thought, Caesar decided that his Legate did deserve some compensation for his blooded work and his offered hand at razing a faction to the ground in his name. "I'll have her collared and numbered."

With uncharacteristic hesitance, Caesar nods, quirking a finger for one of his praetorian guard to bring his ledgers; the older ruler cracks a leather book open, fumbling for a page, he demands the unveiling of her identity, asking her for a name. And before Six could protest, Caesar threatened that if she was lying about her origin, he'll find out and destroy her founding settlement; he then goes on to say that her eyebot was still functional, and his existence continues if she is willing to cooperate.

The taste of her name is almost vile, and her head hangs low when she utters it, "Aries. My name is Aries. Erstwhile Courier for the NCR, daughter of a former raider; my parents were nomadic, my exact place of birth is unknown to me."

And, like a lamb prepared for the slaughter, she's lifted by the ropes again, hoisted over the brute's shoulder and escorted out of Caesar's tent; she's still delusional with her irregular sleep patterns and the throb of her headache pounding at her temple. Instead of watching the Legate's back, her gaze lifts and she nods her pathetic greetings to the gathering of curious slaves who pulled their weight in agriculture and herding of two-headed cattle. Greetings are short-lived by the click of issued boots and the crack of a riding crop, signaling the other slaves to get back to work.

Six is tucked into another tent, open wide and bright with the glaring sun; the tent casts weary shadows, falling over a hunched over old man who tinkered away with an assortment of numbered collars that beeped and buzzed and flashed a daunting red light under the shadow of the tent. She's placed on the ground again, held tight by an intruding hand that had no right to touch her; the old man paid her no mind, but greeted the Legate with fear and devotion – stopping in his work to turn in his chair, quickly standing in his feeble state.

The Legate informs the man about his current situation and his human prize, declared that he needed a collar that he could calibrate with limited freedoms in mind and when he was generous – let her explore the compound of his evils. And, quick for his age, the old man listed his model of choice – finding no permission to advance her with his inhuman handiwork; he straps the collar around her neck and the flashing light at her throat signals the functionality.

Six blanched at the notion of belonging to another human; sickened by the very idea. She makes the Legate well aware of her disdain for him as a human, and he idly listened to her when he descended on her level, retrieve a blade from his pocket to fray the tight bindings at her wrist and ankles; she pushed him away once she achieved freedom in her fluid movements, fingers curling down on bulletproof fabric – shoving the horrid man away; he, however, remains solid – pulling back and ordering her to follow his set pace. The old man who bequeathed the tight device around her neck looked at her with disgust, ignoring her intolerable nature by turning his back on her and returning to his work.

Six waves him off, but follows anyways, rubbing the raw flesh at her wrist from where the ropes cut in; her boots skid off the churned sands, eyes narrowed and blinking under the setting sun – making way for another night; the bonfires in the fortress spring up like cactus flowers, beautiful, but dangerous.

Six stalls, watching the Legate move ahead of her, collar beeping with the distance; her fingers curl in the device, swallowing, and feeling the collar move with her action. She finally follows, catching up with the taller man, staring at his back, because she'd rather not walk next to him through the proverbial Valley of Death. They come to the last of the tents, the last one to dot the very back of the camp, close enough to hear the groans of consorts and labor workers and assigned priestesses attending Legion men. Her captor moves to his own personal tent, drawling back fabric, and signaling her to enter the arrangements.

He exchanges no pleasantries, quietly challenging her to refuse him in the middle of his own territory, but her survival instincts tell her to wait; revenge on foreign grounds would be her undoing. Still, Six's lips thin at the thought of sharing space with the enemy, walking pass him and tucking her head to enter her sentence.

The brooding Legate follows after her, letting the flap of the tent fall, turning his back on her to drawl the strings of his tent closed. Six uses this moment to move away from him quickly, advancing on his study, quickly scouting for the closes thing that could resemble a weapon; the way that the Legate holds his stance shows he is confident enough that she would be lower compared to him – taking his time by unclipping that notorious bulletproof vest and shrugging the heavy thing off, desiring to retire for the night after the long haul of hunting and dragging the Courier back to his lands.

There, hidden under ledgers and an old book, Six plucks the weight of a letter opener; she frowns, turning back on him, keeping vigil near his writing desk. Typical confidence eluded her, clear thinking seems to be fleeting, but she grips that letter opener with startled revelation.

"Put the damn thing down," the Legate ordered, his vest hits the floor with a thud, fingers falling in rhythm at unbuttoning the first two buttons under the collar of his shirt. "You don't expect to kill me with something like that? Ready to talk, Courier?" He's unimpressed, hands pulling away from his undressing, slowly pacing in her wake.

The Courier chuckles with no mirth in her vocal chords; her body tightens and presses in close to the edge of the old writing desk, fingers still refusing to let go of that dull blade used to open missives. "I can't? Well, don't suppose you remember I killed one of your Skirt Club members with a plastic bag? He was just sittin' there, I ran outta bullets and I began shifting through the trash; course, it took time, waited 'til he went to sleep before I slipped the bag over his head." Apathetically, Six shrugged her shoulders, making her discomfort known when the Legate moved close enough to where she could feel the warmth of his clothing graze at her shoulder. "Talk? Naw. Dogs aren't supposed to talk with normal folks."

Six can feel forceful fingers curling in on her wrist, the one that held the letter opener, and jerked up; the letter opener drops from her small hand; she pulls back, retrieving her own limb from his repulsive touch. From beyond the tent, Six can hear cries of men and women, marking the turning of the night; they're stolen away, begging for their innocence, because that's how the game of war starts: money and sex.

The Legate doesn't take kind to Six's reaction to him; reaching up, his finger hooks into the device around her throat and tugs her forward – reminding her of who she belongs to. He's playing on manipulation and raw control, peering down at her with a hard glare. This time Six doesn't look away, but she challenges him with the same authority – even while his hips pressed against hers, cutting circulation to the back of her thighs with the edge of the table.

"And dogs wear collars," the Legate replies back with cold courtesy. "I'm not the one wearing one, am I?"

A static pause settles between them; Six sighs with appreciation when his hand moves from her throat, but cringes when it settles over the curve of her shoulder.

"Fine, ol' man, let's talk," says Six, firm in retort, gaze refusing to avert away. "Where's ED-E? My eyebot. Y'all have no right takin' my 'bot from me. He's done nothin' wrong in his life."

The Legate's fingers curl in on her skin; with curiosity, Six's eyes narrowed, waiting. Watching. She's nauseated by the warmth of flesh gracing hers; while one hand is perched on her shoulder, another rouge hand moves forth, cupping the underside her breast. Only beasts who ravage the world could connect demanding conversation to sexual conquest; she didn't know it was possible to hate the older man more than she already does, but he's conspiring her to believe otherwise.

"Ya goddamn Legion dog, learn to listen to a lady, why don't you?" Six's palms the Legate's shoulders, bluntly shoving him away; she's dealt with drunks in classless dives, this sort of altercation is not unknown to her, but this was different; those drunkards never slapped their name down at owning her, nor did they click explosive collars around her throat. He's persistent in his stride to power, bearing weight down on her; she can hardly breathe.

Never in all her vigilante mindset did she expect to be caught beneath the man she sworn to blow his brains out.

Though, she never did count to ever be caught and tried under Legion law.

His aloof nature makes her skin crawl, and while she tried her best to push his offending hands away, he palmed harder. Arms curl in on her body, and it has Six reeling on the true nature of humans; pre-war books dissect the psychology of the human brain, yellowed pages telling small antidotes about how the human brain harbors evil intentions. With haunting words pressed to the curve of her neck, he mumbles damnation into her skin, spouting deals that Six could not fight against. "I'm willing to work with you if you're willing to work with me."

Six questions herself on placement; this Legate has seen her spear his men with spare weapons – sharpening flag poles, and gutting his men on a spike in the thick of a fight; she's a gambling woman, tossing hands and rolling sevens, high-roller pride is just a second language. With avoiding execution, he's punishing her by making her his bitch – that boils her from the inside.

It was something very Legion centric when it came to tactic; playing mind games on their prisoners is just another pastime.

"No." Six is firm in her belief, she's not some mindless solider marching only to die. She demands answers, she rallies for revenge. Without the armor and the aroma of gun smoke consuming her, she's just a young woman trying her hardest to make it in a world gone mad. But to the man who believes that he owns her, he doesn't listen; he's merely reaping the spoils of war. "No!" She repeats; her fight, or flight instinct tells her to rebel, and she shoves. In retaliation, he pushes her back on the old writing desk, bending her backwards and curling his fingers around her neck, just above the explosives collar.

Six's hands grasp at his wrist, desperately trying to pull him away from the vulnerability of her throat; this man has erected burning crosses, dotting the interstate with charred bodies, she expected nothing less out of this monster. Her nails dig into his wrist, but he tolerates the sting in favor to work the zipper of her trousers with his free hand, sliding down her fabric barrier with chilling fingers; he has no problem in invading her, slipping spiderlike fingers down her folds; his wrist strains against the elastic of her small clothes. He hooks into her with the awkward curve in his wrist, taking her down to the knuckle of his finger; he shoves into her once, satisfied with his extermination and withdrawing his finger to lower the lining of her trousers – making it down to her knees before she almost gets away from his damaging hand.

The toe of her boots barely touch the floor now, and she's staring heavenward – evading his unsympathetic stare. She gasps out in pain and torment when he works into her again, giving in his torture by curving two fingers into her this time – stretching her and familiarizing himself with her. It hurts to swallow by the compression of his tightening hand at her throat, lightheaded by the bruising motion of his fingers moving in and out of her. All the things she wanted to say to him, to ask him, dies in her sore throat.

This cunning courier finds small death at the hands of her enemy; she's lied and thieved her entire life, coming around with decent goals; she truly believed she was to bring rapture to those less deserving, but it seems Judgement Day blows its trumpet in her direction, silencing her verbal speech with greedy hands. She tries her best to twist away from the vile touch, pressing her thighs tightly together to act as a seal and halt his movement, but that was all in vain – and it makes her feel him to the fullest; his palm rests over her mound, running languid swipes over her clit with the underside of his finger, and he deems it necessary to talk her through it – to coax her to open up to him, telling her this will all be over.

The hand by her throat relaxes, and she heaves a broken intake, cursing his name once again with the siege on her body; he's pulling her back from the writing desk, pulling her into a web of arms, hoisting her up and against his body; she's not aroused by the show of masculinity, she hates his silent approach and his attempt at being gentle before he takes her whole.

Secretly, he's enraptured by her strong will and her refusal to compromise; many slaves cried with sexual advances, nothing was all-together attractive with getting a handjob by a slave who wouldn't stop crying.

But this Courier fought and she threatened, and once he's broken her, he wouldn't mind letting her ride him with reverse domination in mind.

However, that would be for another time.

For now, the Legate makes due by pinning her to his bed inside his tent, pushing her face down into the covers, while he nudged her against the edge – watching her desperate hands curl in on the fabric. He takes his time at undressing, flicking the button on his trouser, dragging the zipper down – pushing aside fabric to relieve the stress at his groin.

Sarcastically, Six finds him considerate enough when she hears him spit into his hand, signaling his attempt at lubricating his shaft before the brunt of penetration, tugging himself a few times before he aligns himself with her – tipping his pelvis into her in some long-lived aggression. And once he invades her, subduing her attempts at escape, the terrible man sighs – keeping himself buried in her warmth, enjoying the constriction of her walls even in rejection; he's decent enough to let her upper half rise and bear down on her elbows, enthralled by the disappointment in her eyes once she tilted her gaze over her shoulder.

For security sake, he keeps one hand latched to her shoulder, controlling the movement of her body, while the other finds comfort at her hip, guiding his own movements in rhythmic thrusts – watching himself slip in and out of her. His strokes are unhurried, hilting himself, pausing, then repeating the motion. He leans forward, shifting his weight to press into her back, falling into shallow thrusts with the small change in angle.

Six is disgusted by the abominable fullness of his cock shoved in her, but she keeps her eyes ahead – desperately pretending that someone else was fucking her from behind – thinking about someone else's hands that mapped the plain of her stomach and found its way back to aggravating her sex; she's questioning her past lives, trying to pinpoint the folly in her plan and the sullying of her body. She cringes to the foreign feeling of rough fingertips circling her clit, the steady pattern of shoving and the stretching his girth supplied, she sighs under the stress – finding if she didn't fight this horrid act, it'll be over quicker.

Six cringes to the off feeling of having her hair pulled to the side, having the nape of her neck nipped at and the brush of words that followed along. The Legate praises her for her reluctant fight and his need to blow off steam, but she ignores his hollow words and gnawing lies, keeping silence as an old friend. And, if that bothered the Legate, he didn't voice his displeasure, but instead doubled his pace and heighted the vulgarity.

The Legate's hands are roaming again, preying and searching, curling in at the crook of her arms – pulling her back from the bed to bear her full weight on her knees; his hands tighten there, forcing her to cross her arms behind her back as he took her fully. In this sharp position, she can feel the rough material of his trousers rub her and the annoying brush of his zipper against her entrance every time he sheathed himself completely. Six clenched her jaw when he declined his head, enduring the feel of his chapped lips press at the base of her neck, mapping its way to her jawline.

She's sweating with the unneeded body heat from another; praying for his lengthy finish by purposely clenching her abused muscles in hopes to persuade him. To him, she constricts him lovingly in this regard, stuttering with the perfect tightness. But in the chase for completion, his movements are more aggressive, more intolerable, and it downright hurts when he slams into her wrongly; Six has to bite her tongue at berating him, she feared he would see it as a challenge and postpone his finish.

And when the Legate finally does finish, he refuses to pull back, shoving himself completely, releasing himself deep inside her. Six can feel the slickness of him, the subtle exhaustion of his breath on her neck, and the last few piston movements to milk himself completely in her; she almost heaves in despair when he pulls back, feeling the excess of his seed drip from her and trail down the inside of her thigh. His departure is a blessing, and she'll take her small victories in stride – moving away herself, claiming a portion of space on his rug used to line his tent.

"I'm -," the Legate cleared his throat, finding energy to zip himself back up and stand before her defeated body, "Thank you. Let me give you some guidelines: don't leave the tent, the collar, for now, is set to destruct if you leave. Though, considering your colorful history with the rest of the men here in camp, I wouldn't think you'd want to leave the security. With that being said, find yourself lucky to be under my service – rather my troops." Even after that fiasco, he's business, stepping over her bare body and retrieving his bulletproof vest, sliding it back on and clicking it back in place.

"Oh, and I should take that as a compliment?" Six bit off, finding no shame in her state, nor the evidence between her thighs. "Damn ol' man, couldn't kill me, but decided to take my dignity. Didn't see that comin'." With a shaking posture, Six follows his example at standing, sizing him up in her unbecoming state; she'll cry later, she tells herself. He didn't deserve the see the outcome of his taunting.

The Legate hums with that, unmoved by her hard display, even after he robbed her.


	3. O' Death

Chapter 3: O, Death

Notes:

"I looked, and there before me was a pale horse! Its rider was named Death, and Hades was following close behind him. They were given power over a fourth of the earth to kill by sword, famine and plague, and by the wild beasts of the earth."  
\- Revelation 6:8

* * *

Courier Six lives deep in symmetry, dabbling with flawless anonymity. She cuts competition with zealous duress, and while her punishment may not be just, she kills with finesse.

Six is still a child in the vexing eyes of men who play cutthroat games; she spins her yarn of humble lies, ushering in patrons with siren lullabies that all seem too haunting, too whimsical to be considered natural in the very heart of Sin City. Her hollow-point smile wins favors, tempting chips and rolling caps, throwing down lucky hands – holding full houses with delicate pride.

Courier Six is dubbed Death of the Mojave, and perhaps in some respect, that may be true; Death comes like a charming woman, and when Gentlewoman Death comes calling she's not looking for an escort to the bar - she's taking you to a place where mortal bodies cannot go, escorting those to a place of judgement; she demands blooded revenge.

She has a taste for Lucky Strikes, velvet smoke pouring from pearl-kissed lips, scarlet smiles promising unique outcomes; gray eyes hide behind her veil of smoke; she can do no wrong. Death is her calling card to illusion: dressed in black, breathing deeply through her jagged respirator, and wielding God's holy caliber.

The Legate, however, is a greedy beast – caging Death with unnerving possession; he has fallen prey to her ensnarement. An erudite older man who found fancy in a young woman who he declared a threat to all his beliefs; it was the thrill of the chase that engulfed him, tracking her down the sands and claiming her for his own.

He can recall the moment he fell for Death; he wouldn't deem it as love; it was possession. A mortal man engrossed with the nature of the woman who wrought devastation down on his division of troops.

His men feared her, but they marched to their folly at perusing her; it was dumb luck at catching her. He used Death's kind heart against her and her longing for solitude.

Courier Six lays in her bed of retribution, chasing down a daisy-suit casino owner who reckoned it equitable to shoot her and run – escaping with the infamous Platinum Chip in his grasp; in the fiasco for counter-play, it is detailed by tight-lipped whispers that the Courier Six called to the casino owner like a lost lover, fucked him without emotion, and woke come morn to find he had ran off on her again. And, like a woman scorned, she continued her chase upon the deserts of the Mojave – reaping kill count in Legion death, rewarded with redemption by Caesar's mark. An odd token, for it was the Legate who found the casino owner snooping around the Fort.

Courier Six approached the Fort with caution; she's stripped from her weaponry at the gate, bearing that haunting mask that illuminates against the air of dark. While his men still talked, they stood their ground – parting like the Red Sea, giving her pass to Caesar's tent; still, the whispers ofhaving a go at her stained the lips of his men – whispers ceased by the Legate's pointed glance, inclining harsh gazes to Praetorian guard.

The Courier demanded for her Platinum Chip; her voice distorted by the gasmask, stance small and meek, but willing to drawl a fight with limited resources. She plays off her illusion, mounting respect in the very hearts of the men around her; she could kill – kill in droves - and that was something to fearfully respect. But she could easily be outnumbered now, and all it took was Caesar's blessings.

Caesar willingly gives her the chip, passing his approval and hurrying her off into the belly of the secret bunker underground; she returns with news on destruction in the very bowels of the bunker, but something tells the Legate that she's lying, playing vocal chords like a damn song. And, when the Legate glanced in Vuples' wake, the first out of any of them who met her on the grounds of burning Nipton, he had the same gut-wrenching look that foretold that this woman walks a path of deceit. But neither spoke up, they watch and study, listening to their Caesar dictate his means to kill the Chairman, Benny.

The conversation between the Courier and the Chairman are not held in private, bittersweet jousting was in-store. The Courier, who stormed the trenches to catch the man who shot her twice, is decent enough to remove her helmet with an ominous hiss, shaking unruly red hair from the tight confines of the mask; her voice is softer without the dark barrier, kinder, had a high-roller pride tagged to her accent.

"Baby -," The Chairman ignites his parting words, "Missed ya, I was thinkin' about you, ya know? That warm body of yours from last week really kept me going." A man on his knees, bound to the ground, is only dumb enough to lewdly compliment his executioner; but the Courier softly chuckles – kneeling down to meet the man on his level.

"Sorry, Benny-boy, didn't make much of an impression." Courier Six tilts her head, an enduring quirk of hers. The Legate couldn't see her face, but he could tell she was sadly smiling at the man on death row; he could hear it in her broken-china voice. "Ya know, If you were wise enough, you'd stuck around – I wouldn't have to come hunting for you down in the ass-end of nowhere."

"Impression," the Chairman inquired, amused. "Oh I made an impression all right. The dent in that mattress is permanent." The Courier laughed, and it had the whole tent reeling on the oddity of the conversation; it was awkward, and with something unknown, it made the Legate clench his jaw. But he kept quiet, staying close to his leader's side, baring protection if the Courier decided not to execute the Chairman and turn on all of them. "But listen, pussycat, I know what ya gotta do. Baldy is spellin' it out. You've done me proud so far, now it's your time to really make New Vegas swing. Build it up. Continue to make me proud."

With solemn goodbyes, the Courier placed her own burning brand of bullet into the Chairman's skull; the only difference is: that Benny won't be getting back up like she did.

Six stood among odd men, taking a step back from the corpse, and turning her bewitching gaze on her silent audience; Caesar smiled, and handed her the chip like he had promised.

The Legate doesn't see her for a month, finding her again on the rooftop of an NCR outpost, while he's running patrols and drills; staking out on high grounds, watching every poised movement NCR officials made. The Legate was planning sudden raid, but catches a glance of the Courier sunbathing nude with another strange woman; her notorious pre-war eyebot hovers with vigilance, beeping out coy tones; the two women drink vintage white wine under blushing light, laughing over their travels and the people they've encountered under all this heat; in unpopular gatherings, they tried to live it up in the lap of luxury – even if that meant putting themselves at harm's way with negligence and lack of self-regard.

The Courier, however, had the decency to keep her body holsters clicked on – ready to wield heavy ammunition at the expense of standing her ground naked. Peering through old binoculars, the Legate can see it all: a weathered ink tattoo of an old world compass over her upper right breast, the cocky grin of a woman who won a debate against her friend, and the only piece of fabric that covered some form of dignity. The girls stare heavenward, watching the great expanse of blue fade indigo and blush into a silent night.

They treated the sands of the Mojave like gold, passing conversation, indulging with the quiet, then starting again with topic; after an hour, the girls finally redress and hunker in for the night, it's only after Courier Six and her friend leave the next morning does the Legate pillage a weakly defensed NCR outpost.

It's an odd feeling – allured with horrid characteristics of lying and thieving and surviving does the Legate find enticing about the woman in black; she slandered his military, slaughtered his troops for target practice with an ex-NCR solider, and made a mockery out of him when they both stood on the edge of the world – looking down the barrels of each other's guns.

She ruefully smiled at him, and he carefully studied her.

Hell, the damn woman attempted to cripple him out on the field; he had impaired rationality.

The Legate feels a foreign sense of guilt when he thinks on his position; he's a fifty year old man, lusting after a twenty-three year old girl who's still rearing into this world. He believes it's her strong will and confidence that weaves him into her web of folly; her profligate ways that sung to him on abominable levels. While he looked to her like some sort of wealth ripe for the taking, she found discord in him; that unshakable sense of dread when she fled him throughout the Wastes, never catching his wandering eye.

The chase between Courier and Legate was infamous out on the Wastes; there was no reason to romanticize their jagged encounter.

With her wayward outlook and his malicious ways, beauty has a price that's paid by greed.

-x-

He bent his knees, angling himself behind her. She felt him push in from behind, sliding between her thighs with heavy and hard interest. Even after a week of experience with this man, she still closed her eyes when he pinned her down to the writing desk; whatever dignity she has left evaporated with the commanding, evil nature of humans. But, under the scrutiny of pale-blue eyes, Six desperately clung to her malicious spirit, reeling with impending revenge on her mind; her fingers grip the edge of the writing desk, listening to him bite off on a satisfied sigh with his stilling.

She feels full, enduring the stretching with a strangled grunt, ignoring the languid drag of the Legate's calloused fingertips roll down the spine of her back; war is fought with manipulation and with the invasion of multiple persons. War can be retaliated against with determination and a balanced mind, but mostly with smoking guns and hollow-point bullets. Six is merely waiting him out, refusing to break under his troubled words and vile touching; her bone-pale fist curls in front of her; nails nipping into her flesh when he decided to move.

"Oh -," an auditable sigh escapes her, squeezing her eyes painfully shut once he built momentum; he leans forward, using his height advantage against her, leaving bruising kisses at the nape of her neck and across the lining of her shoulder. She feels crushed under his abominable weight, knees ready to buckle under her, catching her footing that kept her upright and steadfast. And, like teething remarks, his caresses just about cripple her. A haunting gasp escapes the barrier between her teeth, hips jerking violently by an impaling thrust and the pressure of teeth that scraped the curve of her neck; she finds small death while pinned to the edge of the desk.

"Stop. Get up. I can't breathe," Six says, exasperated and burdened under the weight of the world and the monster who held her captive; while her body fell under siege, she was never afraid to speak her mind and lash out at his misgivings, finding no sense of enjoyment in his company, the brash roll of his hips, nor his thick cock buried in her folds. Her palms flatten on the surface of the table, pushing up and against the tension on her back; she's gracious that the Legate moved with her posture.

Six's thighs coiled and tensed, ready to give under the abuse, pressing them together when a particular rough stroke pinches a groan out of her; she wanted to block him out and keep him far away. With the lift, the Legate catches her arm, forcing her body in an upward curve that has her fiercely recoiling away.

The Legate momentarily ducked his head, watching his cock shove inside of her and slide out; he slows his steady thrust just to watch the obscene motion, slick with her forced arousal. Still, he continues to pull her up by the arm and away from the surface of his writing desk, angling his hips and spiking up inside her warmth; aggressive in his handling, gaining friction. His free hand reaches up, touching the underside of her clenched jawline; his fingers curl in, just under her jaw and around the slim of her throat; he didn't squeeze, but he kept her shelved with discipline, seated on his pelvis. Slowly, he tilts her head his way, leaning over her shoulder to press his thin lips against hers.

Six figured, in her own right, the Legate's a handsome man; she found the ashen hair by his temples endearing, contrasting the rest of his dark hair; ominous pale-blue eyes always staring, always watching and studying; a warmed voice, hollow with wisdom and by the sway of the Wasteland. However, his wordless, brutal nature makes him unappealing; he's an intense older man that never took strategy in consideration. She wonders how he was able to win the raging war on Hoover Dam and abolish NCR standing in the Mojave.

Six wonders how she could be foolish enough to get caught.

The Legate's a godless man.

Six's thighs rub together, uncomfortable to the bend in her spine with this upright position; her hand that wasn't captured by a vice, latches onto the Legate's wrist, desperately trying to pry his fingers away from her throat. The collusion of his lips against hers is suffocating, and he's persistent to smother the life out of her; she can hear the drag of his breath across her lips, heated and needy for his goal to finish. She helplessly moans with that, tears stinging at the corners of her eyes in grim defeat. Her hand falls away from his wrist, and with some morbid and repulsive feeling, she enjoyed the girth of him ramming into her; she breathes deeply when his hand withdrawals from her throat, but ends up choking when his hand drops between her thighs to help her along finish with him.

She's tight around him, and the Legate can't help the foreign, hollow groan that escaped deep from his throat with her compliance; he whispers heated vulgarities against the shell of her ear, reminding her who she belonged to and how good she felt around his cock. She constricted him lovingly every time he pulled back from her heat, quickly hilting himself again, longing to be wrapped by velvet walls; he's surprised to feel her push back against him, and knows she's playing that typical game to hurry him along to his release.

The Legate kisses her again, and Six reacts this time, supplying the same amount attention; his finger briefly brushes over her clit; when she gasps he advances on her, swallowing down her bated breath, sliding his tongue across hers, which impairs her rationality. She catches him on a convulsion, body rigid on a forced orgasm that has her reaching up behind herself and desperately curling her fingers into the fabric of his shirt, tugging him along to continue as her muscles clenched around him, milking him for whatever he's worth; he pushed through her tight walls, finding his own ungraceful finish in jagged thrusts, spilling into her.

She's slick and aggravatingly warm. When he slowly disconnected from her, she feels his excess come drip down the insides of her thighs. She stumbles forward, bracing the writing desk that she was originally pressed flat against, gaining renewed perception to the world around her; her shoulders shake, lamenting over her own situation and the outcome in her bleak life.

Six listens out for the Legate's adjustment; he's quick to redress, zipping the front of his trousers and tucking his shirt down.

"Look at me," the Legate demanded, softly. She obeys without hesitance, turning on the edge of the writing desk; she's weak, painfully raw between her thighs, but her eyes narrow with that air of defiance, letting him know that just because he continues to steal from her, she'll continue to live on her own. She can feel a difference in his touch when one of his hands curl around to press into the lower dip of her back, gravitating her closer in his space; she cringes with the stiff fabric of his shirt rubbing her bare breast.

"You don't have to look at me like that," the Legate says, apathetic in tone; he continues to dominate her space and tower over her. He walks her back, pushing her against the edge of the writing desk, coaxing her to sit on the edge; she painfully obliged him, uncomfortable with the wetness between her thighs, finding momentary relief by pressing against a surface. "You've done well by me, Aries." Six sneered with the usage of her birth name; he only said it when he was pleased with her, calling her Courier with the opposite effect.

The Legate casually spreads her legs, stepping in-between them; there's a sense of sickening pride once he glances down between her thighs, knowing that he caused the discomfort. His hand meets her hip, rolling gentle fingertips into her flesh; she's exposed to the element, adamant with his intimidation tactic.

"Sure," Six bit off, annoyed. There's not much Six could do in her position: an explosives collar strapped around her neck and an alarming amount of legionary soldiers just outside this tent; the odds are not in her favor. In her off time, while the Legate was not screwing her, or he was out of range, Six would rummage his belongings; he's neat, too organized, and it absolutely aggravated her; confinement was driving her up the wall; she read through his books and ledgers, hoping to find a key to his locked safe by the foot of the bed that held his personal weapons.

She only found documentation to estimated slaves; numbers aligned with names, tribes marked with dates. And another book lined with versus that contradicted others lines, also marked with numbers; the pages are yellowed with age and travel, and she briefly wondered the tied history to the book.

Now, well, she was waiting for him to leave her again – give her a chance to mourn and clean in peace, while he wasn't in hearing range to hear the slow destruction on her mindset.

"Malpais Legate," Six inquired, feeling vulnerable in her position, keeping her spiteful words at bay. "Let me ask you somethin'." There's mild interest hidden deep in his eyes, pleased to finally have his Courier talking to him after a week of deceit and capture; she fought him the first night, but as the days waned, she stopped fighting against his invasion to her privacy, but she became less vocal – and, truthfully, that bothered the corrupt man. He figured this was her version to protest; she didn't have much to fight against him with in this tent, silent protest seemed like the most logical solution; she's a helluva different woman compared to the gal running business with the man, Swank, from the Tops.

A different illusion compared to Death of the Mojave who marauded the Wastes, reaping the very best from his numbers; he knew she understood the value of war, one of them are bound to die. However, the Legate didn't want to waste that spirit of hers.

"You have my permission," the Legate replies, unnerving curiosity, ghosting his fingers over her hip.

"Why," Six simply asked him, finding that strain of courage after her first week of torment and violation under Legion law; she only inquired now, because he seemed to be in a good mood, found it reasonable enough to get the damn question off her chest. Her voice strained, "Why didn't you kill me? Could've given me a soldier's death, but you continued to take and take. You've already taken plenty out on the people in the Mojave."

"There is still more to take, Courier," the Legate address her by title now, and that oddly comforts her. His patient hands take a turn for the worse, reaching up to grab equal sides on her arms, leaning her back on the desk to pose her submissive. She looks him in the eye, deafening silence haunted the space between them.

Six tried to push him back, desperately gaining ground in her position. "Your Legion strives on the destruction of technology, y'all ain't so different from 'em fellas in the Great War," she challenged him, forgetting her vulnerable situation. "Those who desire war sought to burn everything around 'em. And, once they figured that they had nothin' else to burn, the only thing left they could set aflame were themselves. You're no different, Legate. One day those fires you set to crosses will burn you. So answer me: "Why?""

Her vehement personality humored him. She's still that colorful little lady he saw on the rooftop of the NCR outpost; she is the voided silence right before the bomb drops: ominous, haunting and captivating. In all his years of missionary work to Legion official, he never met a woman quiet like her. His Courier makes him think back on his youth; if he known her then – he would have never mustered the courage to talk to her. He lived a sheltered life, practicing dialogue, spreading his Lord's humble prayer. He was honest and good and soft-spoken.

Now, he's older and aware to the evils of the world; her demanding nature attracts him; she lived by valid principles to never compromise. Not even in the face of Armageddon.

He kissed her, forcing her flat to the writing desk, knocking the breath out of her, holding her shoulders down with his full weight; he had to consume her, had to tame and mount her ghostly pride. And, she struggled. God – she struggled; her nails dig into his shoulders, and he swallows every blasphemous word she had towards the Legion, and to him.

He didn't need to hear her say that she hated him.

He already knew.

The Legate pulls back, whispering terrible words against her flesh, "You ask me why, Aries: I need it. I craved to see you squirm under me. You've wrought devastation on my division, you've struck fear into the hearts of my men – they marched in your direction, ensnared by your damning rides a pale horse, and Hell is following you every step of the way, woman. But here you lay, under me and only me. Man claimed you, and you can do nothing about it."

"You're no man," Six murmured, "You're a goddamn monster." This earned her a graveled chuckle and a mile-long, hideous smile; he drags her close to the edge of the desk, handling her hips with renewed aggression. He pressed into her, and she could feel the beginning of his arousal straining against the rough fabric of his trousers.

The sound of fabric drawling up averts their attention to the entrance of the tent; and, while Six lay bare under the Legate, in a compromising position, she found no shame staring down Vulpes when he entered the tent; she sneered at him, harshly pushing against the Legate to get off of her; without fuss, the Legate did move, standing to the side of the writing desk, crossing his arms over his chest in an objective stance; he nodded to his frumentarii. Six sat up from the desk, closing her legs to hide the evidence to their earlier exploit, covering her breast by the slide of her arm.

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" Vulpes fabricates innocence, gesturing out his hands to show he comes in peace. "Courier Six." The younger man tips his head in Six's direction, amused. He meant to shame her for her new role under Legion command: a whore.

"Mister Fox," Six deadpanned, forbidding the notion that he could ever make her squirm.

"What do you want, Vulpes?" The Legate's powering voice moves the frumentarii's attention back to him; the Legate is not a patient man.

The smile on Vuples face quickly fell, showing full-pledged respect to his better; his boots clicked, and his posture straightened so he could talk without mistake. The report he gave had Six smiling, and the Legate humming in disdain.

"It seems your Centurion, Silus, failed your direct orders. A skirmish of NCR soldiers barricaded his centuria. They all perished outside HELIOS One by sniper fire."

Six thought of Boone and Cass: they were holding down the fort in HELIOS. Abandoning her modesty, Six let out a sharp laugh, tickled that her two former companions were able to best Silus; she's only spoken to the man once, and he only served to taunt her and ask if he could tighten the collar around her throat for the Legate. She didn't care if the Legate stood before her; she'd laugh at any form of Legion failure.

The two men in the tent ignored Six's brash outburst.

"What of Silus? Did he also die with his men?"

"Negative. He was the last standing man on the field; he refused suicide and allowed enemy capture. He shamed his rank, he's shamed Caesar; he deserves to die."

Six only drew conclusion to the news with a maddening laugh, sliding off the surface of the writing desk, walking nude pass the two men. "Your goddamn Legion dog is goin' to spill all your fuckin' secrets." She hardly cared on her unbecoming appearance, or that Legate's come still dripped from between her thighs, because he hasn't given her time to clean up. She's given up caring about the frailty on her own life, but she needed to escape to protect the others.

She promised her father she'd return to him.

Malpais Legate glared a warning in Six's way, but she disregarded his pointed look, sitting on the edge of the bed, wanting to watch foreign expression shade his face; she could tell he was livid by her insubordination and the fact that one of his own was captured by the NCR forces – possibly giving away Legion tactics and secret bases.

"That's eighty men who died under his watch," the Legate commented, reaching up to run his fingers through his short dark hair.

"I'm aware, Malpais." Vulpes remained planted in place, waiting on his Legate's next orders.

"Could've been more," Six sighed, dreamingly. "Not that your men could really amount to anythin', Malpais, Honey. Of course, I'm sure you and your Caesar appointed Silus to his position. Wouldn't expect anythin' good to come from your leadership, Legate. Go ahead, take your failure."

"Courier," the Legate called to her, threatening her; she's sure to face punishment. Honestly, she didn't care. She countered her title with an abstract smile, crossing one knee over the other. "What does that say about your capture?"

"You picked up an ex-NCR courier who hadn't pulled any affiliation with 'em for a long time, Darlin'. Naw, you might want intel, but you wanted a bitch to stroke your cock more, right? Not just any bitch. Oh, no. You wanted Courier Six who has no idea what those gun-totin' soldiers are up to," Six replied drolly, falling back on her earlier question to why? Six doesn't belong here, and she was going to remind him every step of the way.

"It is you who sets things in motion," the Legate says, coldly. "To think, you won't be there when my men kill your own. Let's not forget about your pre-war junk -,"

"-I'll never fuckin' forgive you if you touch ED-E," Six cuts him off, leaving Vulpes in the middle of their spat; purposed harm on her little 'bot always struck the right nerve for her. "Hear that, dog? You may be fuckin' me with ease, but if you touch ED-E...I really don't have anythin' else to lose now, do I?"

"There are other men in the Fort who have shown interest in you. I'm sure they'll be grateful if I hand down my leftovers," the Legate challenged.

"Fuckin' let 'em. Better lay than you, I'm sure. But ya wouldn't let any 'em near me, anyways. You're all about control." Like a misbehaved pet, the Legate held up his hand to silence her; she seethed with unadulterated hatred. He ignored her again in favor of Vulpes' report.

"Inform Picus; Silus will pay for any transgressions against the Legion. I will not stand for failure. Let our spy stage his punishment." The Legate dismissed Vulpes, and the younger man responded by throwing a fist over his heart and saluting out of the tent.

Six couldn't breathe once the Legate advanced her after Vulpes' departure. He pins her to the mattress of the bed; his hand painfully wrapped around her throat, while the other worked on the zipper on his pants. Even posed submissive under him, Six still couldn't help the hollow-point smile she flashed up at him, muttering, "Honey? Sweetheart? Did I upset you?"

He answered her by spreading her legs.

It hurts to walk for two days after their small argument, but she felt like it was worth it.

No. Six knew it was worth it.


	4. Owned by Name

Chapter 4: Owned by Name

All the kings are dead, so long live the Queen of New Vegas.

A Dynasty found in lights is decapitated by the very hands of the damned; Death fancies vintage wines and lavish living, she is so much more than royal. A child to a Raider father and a farmhand mother; luxury is a rarity to her, but she lusted after the best and the expensive – desperately destroying those she hated in the process to obtain material possessions. It helped she had a pretty face and a lovely voice, because men and women of authority are easily swayed by false smiles and silver-tongues.

And, like all good thieves, Courier Six still remains a mystery.

The Legate meets her again under her law, under her rule and gaudy display of lights and neon sin; in the middle of the city where she belonged to by name. She's rolling sevens, cashing chips and seducing patrons to rally by her side. She's smothered in the aroma of sweet perfume and burning ammunition, veiled by a cloud of thick smoke that burned away at the end of her Lucky Strike. A quiet storm is harbored in those vexing gray eyes, and when she sees him from across the gambling hall posed as another gambler, she signals him over to her table; she's the only girl in her all-boys club.

"Mr. Pinstripes," Six mocks his New Vegas disguise of pinstripe pants, black necktie, suspenders, and an overcoat thrown over, blowing away smoke that obscured her vision; the men around her chewed on their bitter cigars, finishing whiskey off by shots. She knows who he is – could recognize his evil ways beyond the Chairmen and gamblers that swarmed the joint. She couldn't misplace those cold-blue eyes. "I was expectin' the Fox, not the Legion Dog. Trust me, Darlin', New Vegas looks good on you." She flashes him that notorious hollow-point smile, gesturing for him to sit down at her table; the Chairmen around her all stood in attention, funneling out by her silent demand for privacy – except for the second-in-command who hesitated by her side.

"Baby, you sure you can handle this? My boys will be watching. Don't you dare forget 'bout that." When the high-roller voiced his worry and discomfort, she waved him off with a soft chuckle; she's a careless creature.

"Swank. Honey, have some confidence in your boss. Mr. Pinstripes here ain't gonna give me any grief, we're meetin' as friends." The man looked perplexed, but he finally stood and motioned for the rest of his men to clear out and observe their rowdy patrons, counting cards and dealing drinks to lucky winners.

Once Swank left, Six's gaze fell on him from across the table, "Never liked a shy fella; sit down, you're makin' me nervous. I got your boss's love letter; from what I've read, your boss ain't too pleased with me killin' y'alls little club members. He's considerin' it downright rude," the Legate did sit with her invitation, easing into the red leather of the chair, locking conversation with the woman adjacent from him; he's inscrutable, and she couldn't drop her maddening smile – not even if it was her life that was on the line. Her little 'bot hovered near, buzzing close and low by her height; he acted as her vigilant little body guard; it bleeped and she oddly replied to it, reassuring the pre-war junk that she's all right in this close proximity; she reached out to touch his paneling, running delicate fingers over the chilling metal.

"You walk a dangerous path, Courier. You're making enemies with those that you shouldn't. I'm only serving as a warning," there's not a lot of colored expression found in the Legate's voice, but she's able to hear him from across the table and over the brass band that played swing; she offers him a pour from her wine bottle, but he declines.

"What," Six feigned innocence, pulling the slim from between her lips and flicked the embers off the end, "What's baldy gonna do? Slap my hand?" She laughs, taking this whole conference as a huge joke. "I like your spectator shoes; they're awfully clean. Too clean to be roughin' it through the Wastes. Are you a gamblin' man, Legate?" She attempts to sway conversation without prevail.

"Execution. Lay siege on your precious city," the Legate responded, coldly; Six always found it hard to pull expression out of the man, but she enjoyed challenges. "You forget who controls the Dam. Your people will die under your influence. Step down. Save face. And, perhaps, my Caesar will show mercy."

"I love it when you Legion types talk murder," Six shivered, grinning a little harder with the Legate's heavy threat on war with New Vegas; he can see the dull ink of the number: 13 etched into her trigger finger, and he mildly wonders the story behind that tattoo-souvenir and the one over her breast. The Courier is wrapped in enigma, she ran postal and somehow managed to scrounge her way to the top – digging her heels into the lesser to climb her latter to power. "Back down, eh? And that's all, sweetheart? Roll over and let your Legion dogs nail my people to the cross? Either way: we're dead. Let me give ya a little lesson from the ole world. A time y'all consider the root to all evil; a quote I hold dear to my heart: "They who can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty, nor safety." Evil has always been around. Those who oppose evil has been around just as long. Now, I ain't tryin' to play hero. Never wanted to be hero. But I'll be damned to let your Legion dogs waltz into my city and dismantle all the work I put up. Give up? You're talkin' goddamn crazy, Legate. You're lucky I ain't pickin' up my shotgun, and givin' my Chairmen a brand new paint job for their goddamn casino."

"You're tying your own noose, Courier. And it's only getting tighter and tighter. You're going to find yourself unable to breathe with all the harm you've done. You thought no one would notice the skirmishes you set upon my men? You thought House's silence would go unnoticed? You have a lot to say for a women who stands by a flag that's already been taken down long ago. Five years too late." The Legate could see through her haunting smile, knowing that struck something deep within her. She has a lot of nerve going against his banner. A lot of nerve to be caught in this profligate establishment, wearing just her red heels and tight black dress. Though, he never doubted her; she never learned the words: no, or fear.

"Guess the Mojave needs a gal like me to keep it up then, huh?" Six inhales a long drag from her cigarette before snuffing out the remains into the table's given ashtray. "Now, if that's all you wanted to tell me, then I'm goin' to have to ask that you kindly leave. I'll only ask this once." She stands, rounding the table and offering the Legate her hand; he obliges the young girl, shaking her hand once, stilling once her free hand snatched at his necktie and jerked him down to her level, twisting her fingers dangerously around the fabric; he catches her eye, watching the amused little quirk at her brow. "Leave, and let the Wastes devour you, because if I see you – I'll kill you, Legion dog." Her 'bot gravitated close, ominous clicking, pointing that little turret in his direction, magnifying her vendetta against him.

 _"Then I offer you the same respects, Courier."_

 _"Then that's all good, sweetheart,"_ The hand at his tie loosened; both of her hands reach up to flatten the labels neatly on his overcoat, _"Glad you like a little competition."_

However, he did not kill her.

He couldn't kill her.

But she's not hesitant to drawl her weapon on him.

When he sees her again, off in the distance, perched high on a hill that overlooked the glow of burning crosses; he's not looking at that little lady with pearl-kissed smiles, bright red heels, and soft garter belts. He's staring at Death, and she is a vengeful spirit against the backdrop of irradiated skies and blooming ash clouds that churned in sorrow. That inexpressive black mask and the glowing tint in the lens is the only thing he could see. The only thing to give Malpais Legate any pause.

She slowly ascends her holy caliber, rust dully glistening under all this ultraviolent light; like cranking the blade to the guillotine, she moves with implausible grace; she was that ghost who killed. Her sniping is cruel and unmerciful; she aims for the legs, and her targets would cry out for help to their comrades, and when rescuers skimmed over the sands – only did she make new targets, and those who lay crippled, bled out in the Mojave sands, watching their friends die miserably by her hand.

She's consumed by the minuscule debris and burning embers that flutter off the smoking crosses, which faded into the darkness and voided galaxies that swallowed the skies every night. She quietly mourns for those strung up on the cross, holding quiet vigil by the base – praying to an entity who's denied them for over two hundred years.

It wasn't God who makes people in this world do terrible things. It's man.

She took full responsibility over her lawless actions to satisfy that burning need for revenge; she took the first shot at him and caught him on her burning bullet – lodged in the bone of his kneecap. She's standing at the edge of the world and looked ready to jump, watching him struggle across the great big scar on the earth that the bombs left behind; that was her sadism.

It's his turn to bleed out in the Mojave, clawing forward and sinking his fingers into the shifting warm sands; stale blood clinging to grime. His return aim isn't as sharp as hers, wielding that .45, dishonoring his own father who gave him the gun and hoped he'd make the world a better place.

Not this.

Never this.

But the Legate is a hard man to kill; NCR marked him down five times in elimination. With his body littered with shrapnel, he refused to die.

The Legate's time finally comes when he captures his sharp-witted courier; it's her turn to grovel at his boots when his men rip the helmet off her head, and she's staring up at him with unaware, angry tears mapping down her face – chuckling dully at herself over the whole damn situation - about how heroes are the ones to meet their tragic end, while the devils of the world continue to consume and spread their horrible gullies.

God is a comedian, and humans are his audience who are all too afraid to laugh over folly – expect Six. She always had a reason to joylessly laugh – even while the joke wasn't all that funny.

That's when he knew he had to have her; he originally planned to kill her under the stars, in front of his hounding men who crowed with victory over the woman who sought to bring rapture upon them. But he couldn't. There's too much spirit in her, too much to completely kill. And, in his own sick ways, he had to destroy it – had to obtain it by force and brute strength.

The Wastes can change men. That shy young man who was excited over his first missionary trip was now a bitter older man wanting to watch the world burn from under him; that boy died long ago, and the man who stood in his place was ready to follow.

But not his Courier.

Never his Courier.

-x-

If it's stupid but works, it isn't stupid.

And neither was Six – for that matter; clever is getting out alive. Clever is gaining trust out of the man who wronged you in every way. If he wanted to fuck her - there will be recomposition, and she'll be the one arranging it all out for him. She's done it to Benny, and now it was the Legate's turn.

Men can be easy to sway, easy to manipulate with reasonable promises; while under her Legate's watchful eye, she still played her hand close to the heart – close on her prize at extracting any bit of information out of the older man. She spins her yarn of compliments. Subtle, nothing too extravagant to cause suspicion, but endearing enough to arouse a certain chuckle out of the man who usually bore down on her. If he chuckled, then she knew she caught him in a good mood. He, however, is a tough client to please.

"When I first started runnin' courier with the NCR they paired me off with this scrawny little fella; he was 'bout my height, weighed a little less than me, and he didn't like talkin' – had a bad hand with Blackjack even while he was downright addicted to it. I was around eighteen when I started workin' with the ol' Bear of California. This guy was thirty; said his Pa had him workin' the field real young, but he wanted to see the Wastes outside his little backwater farm. He thought workin' under the bear would fill that desire." Six sat on the only single bench that preoccupied the showerhead lineup in the Priestesses tent, letting the lukewarm water drizzle over her, while the Legate took up the space. She ignored her current state of dress, and the forced conditions of having to share a bath with her captor. "You'd think an' older fella would have a little more experience than a girl who just left her dad, but I ended up havin' to drag him across the Wastes. His name was – Petey! That's his name."

"I ain't tryin' to talk bad on the man, he was nice in his own way; sorta creepy, though. I swear, he was into some odd stuff. Not the typical fella you'd leave your kid alone with, but he never did anything wrong by me," when Six spoke, the Legate listened; he always listened to whatever she had to say, but he could be cynical over her youthful ways at how she viewed the world. Still, he usually saved comments at the end of her stories, staring her down while he washed, erasing the smell of burning wood and stale blood. "Well, we'd hit the local dives in major settlements while delivering packages between point A to point B; he told me he was into men, but he didn't know how to talk to 'em. He asked me if I could talk 'em up into approachin' him. I was eighteen, I didn't talk to a lot of men either, 'sides livin' with my ol' man. I didn't have any experience, but I agreed and walked up on the first fella at the bar; he had a machine gun, and you know anyone looks pretty damn imitating with a machine gun. He was big – bigger than Petey, but I assumed Petey may be into men like that."

The Legate signaled Six to stand so they could switch positions in the shower; he sat in front of her on the small bench, while she scrubbed away the stress and depression of constantly being held in the Legate's tent; it's been a month now, and with no one else to talk to – the Legate was her only choice and source of company.

"The guy with the machine gun – his name was Joey, I think; I remember he told me he's from Arizona; had to be in his forties. He had a hard way of speakin', I remember; talked like he smoked a mile-long of cigarettes. He downright dismissed me when I approached him, told me he wasn't into little girls, he also told me to find some other man to buy my drinks. I sat next to him anyways, and I had to quickly explain myself. I told him 'bout Petey, and that he was lookin' for someone to relate to. I painted Petey up, got the guy interested. So, Joey agrees. He finished what was left in his shot glass and followed me to the table where Petey was occupyin'," Six sighed, bringing her arms down to her sides, enjoying the typical lukewarm water on her sore bones and how it countered the Mojave heat. The Legate usually badgered her for sex while in the Priestesses' tent, she knew it probably wouldn't last long after her story.

"So I leave the two after introductions – decided to try my own hand at gettin' a fella to buy me a drink. I didn't have much success; like I've said: I was inexperienced. The only men I ever talked to was this farmhand who was nice enough to help my dad – and my dad. So I turn in for the night, and I only assumed the same for Joey and Petey. I wake the next mornin', and I go huntin' for Petey in one of the motel rooms. When I opened the door to his room – there's blood everywhere," Six cringed, feeling the Legate's fingers brush over her hip, coaxing her to sit on his knee; she obliged, not all enthusiastic, but she followed for the sake of false trust. That was usually the deal with Priestesses' tents: it was a place where higher-up slaves would bathe with or without their masters, or for the prostitution of brainwashed priestesses who served as glorified whores under Legion law; they usually worked as teachers to young legionary boys.

Each showerhead was barricaded with curtains, keeping privacy between neighbors.

"The man killed your friend," the Legate asked, feeling rather smug over the disgruntled look on Six's face; he kept her secured on his thigh by pressing his fingers into the lower dip of her spine, rolling his fingertips over the flesh. He bounced his knee once, finding humor in the Courier's face when she thought she'd lost balance.

"You'd think, but no. Petey is standin' over Joey's body, tellin' me that he was startin' to have second thoughts 'bout his one-night-stand with a stranger; he claimed when he told Joey this – he tried forcin' himself on him. Petey slid his switchblade from his sleeve and proceeded to stab the poor sonofabitch. Petey is covered in blood and he was shakin'. So I'm standin' there, tryin' to calm Petey, tellin' him it'll be all right – that he needs to wash up and we'll move the body to the tub when he's done. I'm sure the attendants who owned the motel were use to seein' dead bodies in the tub; it usually hosted Raiders and mercenaries," Six shrugged, apathetic over the event. "After Petey cleans up, we proceeded to movin' Joey's large body to the tub. I took his arms, and Petey lugged the man's legs. When I picked up my half, I begin to notice these – bite marks on his neck. Deep marks. Joey's neck lopped over awkwardly, and I could see the muscle. I didn't say anything, wasn't plannin' on sayin' anything. Petey looked like he went through hell. Last thing he needed was my snoopin'."

Six is not surprised when the Legate reached out to grab her by the wrist, pulling her hand down and forcing her to cup his groin with an open palm. "You can talk while doing this, I only have so long before I need to leave. Go on," his fingers curl in over her hand, encouraging her to wrap her fingers around his girth. Six frowned, but remembered women could build up Empires – and dismantle them with the right type of kindness and the right type of touch. "Don't look at me like that. I could be using your mouth for something else other than what you're doing now." He let out a sigh with Six's languid stoke. And, even after the vulgar comment, she still continued to frown, not pleased with his deadpan advance; not at all fearful under his mild threat.

Water didn't make a good lubricant, but the Legate kept his hand over hers, guiding her touch, clamping her fingers down to appropriate the right type of pressure on his shaft. She only hoped he was charitable enough not to ask her to use her mouth for real.

"As I was sayin': After we left the motel, not much happens. It's quiet, and we decide to make camp outside. Petey looks haunted. Almost guilty. But not enough for me to accuse him for somethin' bein' off. We hit another settlement after that night, takin' a swing at another sleazy bar, and I'm damned surprised when Petey asks me to talk to another guy for him." The Legate's hand moves away from hers once he built up the right motion for her; she gave him a twist, her thumb barely brushing under the tip; she ignored his breathy voice, softly telling her to continue that certain stroke and for her to lift up off his lap a smidge so he could return the favor.

"I tell him it wasn't a good idea considerin' Joey from the night before, but he talked me into it. Pulled that guilt trip on me, tellin' me that he's fine and that this time it'll be different. He's ready. This one takes me longer. Tougher crowd. Most of the men in the bar were farmers with spouses, or they weren't too interested in the same sex. I find this twenty year old who's interested. Weird name: Lizard. He's a scruffy guy, real easy on the eyes, real fun to talk to. I talk him into givin' Petey a shot." Six wanted to close her thighs once she felt the Legate working his fingers into her, tilting her back a tad by running his two fingers up her folds, switching his fingers out to roll his thumb over her clit; he curls one finger into her, a second finger follows once he stretched her out enough; she begins to wonder if he was still listening to her with all his whispering, complimenting her for being tight around his long fingers.

Six regarded him, tensing with his forward motion of curling in on her and pressing his face against the side of her throat, pressing his mouth just above the explosives collar. "Keep going," the Legate muttered, "I'm listening." She cringed with his reassurance, keeping steady pace at jerking him. He let out a troubled sigh once her thumb rolled over the head of his cock; she gave him a squeeze, fingers narrowing in on him, extracting that small bead of pre-cum that she then ran a fingertip over.

"He -," the Legate inclined his gaze, moving back up to capture her groan by pressing his mouth against hers, swallowing her words before she had the chance to utter them. Six can barely breathe under the smothered warmth; his touch is rough, abusive to her inner muscles when he tried to yank a sound out of her - painfully pressing down on her clit to get a rise out of her. "Oh, Legate – there." She's disgusted with herself by encouraging him; she, however, needed to gain that ounce of trust; her peaking and prying through his personal belongings while he's away wouldn't cut it. She used womanly graces, and while still reluctant, she rolled over on her back and agreed to accept him.

Killing him later will bring a perverse gratification once her time comes.

"Here," the Legate mouthed against her lips and she dully nodded, unceremoniously kissing him back, bringing forth long and ragged breathing. The hand she was stroking him with faltered, trying to grip that forthcoming end he was ushering out of her. Six reached up, garnishing the man's shoulders with her arms, fingers tangling in his short dark hair, wordlessly begging him to continue; his freehand moved to curl in on her hip, keeping her steady on his thigh. He's pleased by this development, free to explore her by the simple spreading of her thighs, burying his fingers deep within her. And, like a stressed spring, she snaps with her thighs clamping down on his hand, crying her appreciation against his skin, pressing her bare breast against his chest.

The Legate removed his fingers, wanting to replace them with something more sustainable; he patted her hip, signaling for her to drawl up on his lap and face him. Silently, she slid off his lap, idly rubbing her sore muscles with the water that still poured in from the spout within the makeshift shower. He touched her thigh again, beguiling her to invade his space; she followed by awkwardly crawling up his thighs, spreading herself over him, baring weight on her knees once they touched the wooden surface of the shower bench.

"Should I go on with my story?"

"I never said you had to stop."

The Legate reached between them with one hand; he scooted her closer, curling his fingers around his shaft and giving himself a few pumps before aligning himself under her. Her fingers brushed over his shoulders, mindlessly tracing over a scar-souvenir etched into his flesh; she waited, feeling the tip of him brush against her entrance.

Six sank down on him in one fluid thrust, sheathing him in her willing warmth; she gasped once his hand pulled out from under her, curling his fingers into the side of her thigh. Buried between the apex of her thighs, the Legate watched the frown on her lips, the concentration at her jawline, and the schooled emotion in her eyes; she still hated him – that was apparent. He didn't just steal her armor, her weapons, her Pip-Boy, and her eyebot. He stole her pride.

Six swallowed, adjusting to the stretch, rolling her hips to encourage him to move. "Ready?"

"Go ahead," the Legate pulled her in closer, leaning her forward on her knees to create a space for him to thrust up in; her chin rested over his shoulder, while her arms coiled around him. She pressed heavily against him, and he supported her; she breathed against his neck, languidly dragging her mouth against the curve of his throat, nipping at the hollow under his jaw. He's thick and hard, and she gasps with the intrusion, getting a feel for the first spiked thrust that he made on his own.

"I was able to talk this Lizard-guy into seein' Petey. Course we rented a room together, but I found myself without a bed at the end of the night. I wasn't planning on bein' a third-wheel to their little party. And I wasn't all too keen payin' for another room 'cause my partner wanted to bone a stranger. Oh, God -, Six cried, withering against his cooled flesh. Her knees pressed in close on his sides, trying to compose herself and continue telling her story. "W-well, this bartender who was servin' us was a swell gal, she offered me a cot in the back office. I stayed a bit and talked to the lady who ran the bar, while Petey ran off with his new friend. I had myself a couple drinks, and was ready to call it quits. I told the bartender I'd be back, I had to run up to my room I originally rented and retrieve the clothes I liked sleepin' in. Before I knock on that Motel door hopin' I wouldn't see anything, I noticed that the door was ajar and the doorknob was saturated with somethin' wet. I was downright disgusted, but it was too dark to tell what I was touchin'. So I opened the door, and flipped the switch on to the room I was expectin' to see two fellas in. Well, I wasn't wrong, but it was more like – one fella and a half. Petey was eatin' the poor bastard!"

"That'd explain the teeth marks on the first man," the Legate noted, halfheartedly; it wasn't the first time he's heard a story like this. Unaffected, it didn't damper his mood. He was more interested with the tight squeeze of her walls doing a number on him and the warmth of her breath that ghosted over his flesh with every sudden connection he forced up into her. "Here, lift up on your knees a little for me. Yes. Like that."

Six obliged him, and he pulled back to move the two of them close to the edge of the bench; he motioned for her to put her hands back on his shoulders, wanting her to ride him for a change; he leaned back as best he could, resting his hand back over her thigh. He enjoyed the willingness of her heat around him, and the intoxicated sight of seeing his enemy bounce slowly on his cock; he ducked his head, watching himself disappear into her; the water that poured overhead from the spout pooled between their joining.

"So, what happens next," he was baiting her into talking, wanting to hear that desperation come out of her with each penetrating thrust she made.

"I -," Six panted, breaking on a sob, feeling so full and warm and vulnerable; she hated him so much, but she enjoyed the laziness in his voice; those smoothing undertones he used every time he fucked her. The drag of her fingers fell between them, and she gave him another pleasing visual; she touched herself, ungracefully swiping her fingers over herself with each sinking thrust. "It scared the hell out of me, truthfully. I've never seen anything like this. Petey – fuck, you're so good. You're so goddamn close."

"Petey? That's not my name," The Legate pulled one of his rare smiles, pushing her hand away to replace its job; he dragged out the worse vulgarities, and she had to take him a little harder – a little faster.

"Well, the dog never wanted to give me his name," Six deadpanned, huffing out an irritated sigh by the slow drag of his knuckle against her; she slipped him down to the hilt, rolling her hips in small and hurried circles, wanting to reclaim that friction.

That pulled silence out of the Legate and he looked oddly human with the discomfort of familiarizing himself with her. He hummed, satisfied by her eager movements, agreeing to open up a little about himself, while she was forced to give up her own identity on day one.

"My name -," the Legate hesitated, something so uncanny to his character – something so unlike the Malpais Legate to the Legion. "My name is Joshua." When he told her, she caught him with her forceful and foolhardy nature; she kissed him, hard. Her teeth clicked against his, smothering the life out of the older man under her. He accepted his momentarily submission, sliding his tongue over hers, taking pride with her finding pleasure in his lap while the bench from under them creaked with age and weight.

"The dog does have a name. Somethin' so normal, and I like it. C'mon, Joshua. Come for me. I want it -," she breathes against his mouth, kissing him in-between hushed words. "God, I need it." She put him in his place this time, moving her hands up to dangerously thread her fingers through his short dark hair, forcing him to watch her, and only her. She was unforgiving, riding him hard, playing him the pawn in her wicked game, dropping herself fully onto his lap. She jerked his head back by his hair, and she glared down at him - claiming her authority, reclaiming that lost ego he stole a month ago. She clamped down on him hard, milking him for whatever he's worth, showing him that lost hollow-point grin she often wore in casinos.

The Legate broke with that, shoving himself completely into her heat; she felt the familiar warmth of his orgasm between her thighs. Wordlessly, she pulled back from his lap, and left him to find his own personal death while she cleaned his mess off from between her thighs with the running water.

And, as if nothing happened, Six finished off with her story, letting him know that she won. "Petey looked to me with fear. He tried tellin' me that somethin' like that was normal – that he couldn't help himself. He wanted me to join him. I ended up killin' him in that motel room; never did care much 'bout travelin' with others after that – 'sides my ED-E, of course."

Where he originally wanted to own her, she ended up dominating him.

He knows he'll regret opening up to her like this someday - even if he only gave her his name.


	5. The RamThe Hero

Chapter 5: The Ram/The Hero

Laid before her was the great expanse of the Mojave Desert; mental associations are curious, and Six felt a throb of pain between her and the great unknown. All that mystery. All that majesty of wealth touching the horizon in golden hues of orange and fading violet – gone by the greedy hands of the Legion.

She missed her dad, her eyebot, and her carton of Lucky Strikes. She missed the extravagance of New Vegas, the gaudy lights, and the cheap smiles she received. She missed the lovely ties to freedom and the cold caliber in her hands and the long miles she walked alongside her loving ED-E. She missed the brass bands, the romance in swing and singing next to a stranger who strummed low strings.

She missed it all. She had it all. But she lost it all.

The Legate relocates east from the Hoover Dam by Caesar's blessings; the trip was haunting; he pushes her across the West, forcing her to witness the countless faces of the damned and crucified. Her collar only permits so much limitations on where she wanders and who she interacts with. They're pushing Legion influence upon a state like a horrid plague, and some are unable to shake the fevers of the great red banner that serves as their metaphorical shallow grave.

The Legate pulls the cigarette from her mouth, throwing it down on golden sands. Six cringed, pulling at the sleeve of her salvaged army jacket with distaste, brash annoyance colored her face. The Legate hardly looked heartbroken over the exchange, crossing his arms over his chest – silently disproving on her negligence.

Six liked smoking; it covered up that drawling, dry illness she's been feeling for the last week. She wakes with nausea. She's always tired. The lag in her step even has the Legate questioning, but his concerns are usually left on the backburner.

"Goddamnit. Why'cha have to go and do that? Only had one of 'em, too," Six groaned, snuffing her boots around in the sand, hoping to find the slim and pocket it for later; the absence of nicotine was killing her. It was like a sign from God that she found it in the middle of the blinding badlands.

"Where did you get that," the Legate inquired, quietly seething on her attitude about the matter; he knew she was trying to paint him soft in the eyes of his men. That would be the opposite effect, he was stricter on her intake; discarded any contraband items she could get her hands on. But the Courier is a resourceful woman with a keen eye; she liked to study her surroundings before plunging headlong into folly. And that included finding stray cigarettes.

"Well, Dad, certainly not from one of your skirt club members," Six held that frown when she felt the Legate's fingers run through her long hair, moving it out of place to check if she hid anymore.

"Don't make me regret my lenience on you. I've given you certain freedoms. Do not squander them," The Legate withdrew his hand; together they stood at the entrance of their new tent, held in new surroundings. The old Fort was bigger, but this new base felt just as secure with the walls drawn up and the guards patrolling the perimeter; the damn place glowed, too. Bonfires were always quick to bloom after successful scouting. "And don't call me that."

"What? Dad? Well, my dad was a whole lot cooler at his raisin' me. I ought to call ya my grandmother. Now – that woman gave me maintenance beatings if she thought I was doin' somethin' I shouldn't," Six ducked back into the tent to escape the heat, and the Legate followed her through the flaps, dropping the fabric behind them. The tent looked the same from the one back at the Fort, except this one was spacious – had a segregated area where the Legate would meet with Legion couriers and negotiate land agreements with other lower ranked officers who held up old NCR outposts and small permanent camps.

"Were her intuitions correct?" He met her by the writing desk; she leaned heavily against the desk, plucking one of the Legate's ledgers up by the spine, spilling the book open.

"Naw. I was right as rain. I – uh, well I guess I could be a handful. But I swear I was a good kid. Nothin' too bad. She always told me I was the one puttin' the nail in her coffin with all the stress I gave her. Bless her soul for lookin' after my ol' man and me. When I was young girl, she taught me 'bout singin'. She's from Utah, ya hear? She grew up a tribal; she always talked real funny. So, I was damn skeptical 'bout learnin' from her." Six closed the book with an off frown, placing it back down on the surface with a discontent sigh.

"Your grandmother's from Utah," the Legate's sincere inquiry surprised Six; she regarded the man before her, eyed him with suspicion, slowly nodding her head. She's never seen that sort of expression on the impersonal man's face – something a cross between humble and awe. Truthfully, it unnerved her on how normal of a person he looked – someone who was capable of emotion.

The Legate is a rare bird, indeed.

"Am I talkin' to an echo? Yea, she's from Utah. See, my grandfather pushed his Raider group through the damn valleys; he thought he could bank on some fortune out in the hills. It was a rumor, but he did find a barrel of silver spoons. He met a bunch of religious folk who pointed him in the wrong direction on purpose. Well, down in the foothills there's this little chapel. Small. Quaint. Apparently, it had a whole bunch of tribal surroundin' the buildin'. Livin' in the structure. Well, my wilily grandfather comes up on the chief's daughter, thinkin' he's goin' get the jump on her. My grandmother turns around holdin' a shotgun and almost takes his head off," Six snorts, rubbing her hands together out of habit.

"Are all the women in your family like that," Six notes the amusement with the Legate's inquiry; she humors him by smiling along with her own story.

"My ol' man told me my momma was sweet. She died when I was five though. When you run with Raiders, you're bound to die by other Raiders. I remember her - sorta. I remember she had a lot of blonde hair that she braided back, and that she would collect bullet shells under the bridge where my father's old Raider group lived. She was a farmer's daughter. My dad said she was a wallflower – real damn soft-spoken, real shy, but he had to know her. He never said anything 'bout her drawlin' a gun on him. So, I'm gonna assume it's my ol' man's half that are trigger-happy."

"Ah. That would explain a lot," the Legate says, bypassing her from the writing desk to sit down. The chair scooted back, but Six kept close to the edge, crossing her arms over her chest – waiting for any sort of dismissal. She liked talking about her family. It kept her sane in her confinement; and just because she made friendly conversation with her captor it did not make her weak. It made her resourceful.

It's better than talking to blank walls – that's for sure.

To show for the illusion of trust, Six moves away from the surface of the writing desk, coming behind the Legate while his fingers cracked open his ledgers and she leaned against him, brushing his short hair back with careless fingers – tracing gentle fingertips over the man's temple.

The Legate relaxed under her touch.

Men will always be forever easy to crush.

After a while of teasing, he coaxes her to sit on his lap.

-x-

She never stops talking.

He's not against it.

It's just the moments she decides to start talking annoys him.

Six lets out a shaky groan and bites her lip as the Legate filled her, a hand in his hair curls with the pressure, fingertips brushing by his ear; she's polite enough to cease her conversation over trivial matters, inclining her head to kiss him with practiced kindness – kind enough for a woman who's forced against her will. He bears his weight fully upon her, crushing her against the mattress with his arms curled around her; it's an intimate motion, but the Legate is a lonely man in his reign of terror. And if he's to find comfort in the arms of the enemy – then so be it.

"I think – you should bring me back a workin' radio for the tent. That'd be real swell," Six says, her nails scratch his scalp gently, coaxing him closer to the bed, closer to her. Her breast are pressed tightly to his chest, and she works to wrap her legs around his waist, pinning her heel into the small of his back; she opens herself fully for this invasion of privacy, turning her face away to make her neck vulnerable and appealing.

His mouth brushes against the hollow of her throat, indulging in her body with shallow thrusts; he keeps close to her skin, almost afraid to pull fully away. She involuntarily tightens around him by the brash drag of the tip of his tongue; he mapped her from the curve of her neck to under her chin, garnishing her with soft bites and warm kisses. He hums against her flesh, a decent approach to ignoring her words, biting down a little harder with heavy and warm strokes. She's so hot and wet that he wonders how he hasn't lost his mind yet.

She says his name. His real name. And he sighs in response with such a loving endearment.

And then she ruins it.

"Ok, Joshua, but listen – a radio," her legs wrap tighter around his narrow waist, keeping him encased within her welcoming heat – even while his motions slowed to a staggering halt to scold her for talking. She rolled her hips from under him, sheathing him completely into her, grinding into him for purchase; she must have done something right with the telling signs of his loss for words and the choke in the back of his throat he tried to blanket as a disapproving cough. "It gets real damn boring in this tent."

"Stop. Talking. Just -," his Courier catches him between words, pressing her brow against his, ensnaring him within her haunting trap; she kisses him hard, bruising, and all too suffocating. And for a man who shows little emotion, he's rather conflicted on the matter. She pulls him down, muttering vulgarities against him, heated by her breath and confidence to ruin him and take over – even while he topped her and loomed over her smaller frame; he feels if he doesn't reciprocate he'll die. She was always so well-equipped at teasing the tension between them; between gunplay and foreplay.

"I'll get you a radio just -," the Legate tries to pull himself from this stupor, listening to every heated promise she pressed to his flesh, staring down those gray eyes that promised so much more – so much adulterated sin; she's playing him like a bad gamble, playing his own cards way too close to the heart. He was never good at gambling – not like her.

Her fingers traced up the length of his nape, patiently asking him how good she felt around his cock, and sometimes he would humor her and respond, telling her she's the best lay he's ever had – that he fitted so well - like she was made for him. Between the two, two contradictions, two separate paths, they hardly understand the notion to the love songs that'd play tirelessly over the Mojave Radio and the part where it tells them tobegin again.

To begin again.

The only thing Six fawned over was revenge and debauchery; and the only thing the Legate could ever love was Legion colorization and the fresh smoke that poured from his .45. She had better moral values compared to his Christian upbringing, a girl who was raised by a murderer.

Their union, however, is toxic; she could con her way through anything, and he wanted to kill everything. They're bound to destroy the other.

Or they're bound to destroy themselves in the same sentence.

Six chuckles without mirth when she finds the Legate has found his pleasure in her, holding her down to release, shuttering with the familiar warmth. She's sopping after his finish, barely making an attempt to move; he arches over her body, still buried deep within her folds, wordlessly showering her with his approval. His tongue languidly slides across hers, bearing down to swallow her breath, humming with the slight shift of her legs coming down to rest. She coyly bites his bottom lip, and he slowly pulls back; cold eyes falling prey to grey storms.

"So, ol' man, 'bout that radio -," Six grinned, opposing the Legate's subtle frown. "C'mon, Joshua, don't give me that look. I gave ya a good finish, now don't you dare go back on your word." She couldn't help the satisfied moan that escaped her when she felt his hips withdrawal from hers; he slides out of her with inelegance, and once he leaves her space she could feel the drip from between her thighs, the gravity sensation of his come leaking. She closed her legs tightly together to ignore the feeling, and the Legate looked mighty smug with the change.

He moves besides her, laying on his back to look up at ceiling of the tent; the Legate tried to catch his racing mind. And before he has a chance to respond – like clockwork – the tent flaps pull back, and one of the guards comes strutting in, brandishing caliber and nervously keeping his eyes averted towards his Legate rather than the Courier who wasn't ashamed by the intrusion; she sat upon the bedding bare, cringing over the authority by her side.

"Apologies, Malpais Legate, boarder wanted me to inform you that they've apprehended four NCR soldiers a mile from the camp -,"

"-And you thought you should tell me," the Legate cut off, sitting up with renewed energy. "You've killed trespassers before without informative action. Why does it matter now? Why does it make it right to bother me now?"

"They wanted to know about Courier Six. It was direct order -," the soldier's voice wavered and his lips thinned; he stood at attention, fixing his posture under his Legate's strong stare. Six tilted her head at that, curious over NCR involvement with her; she hasn't dealt with them with for years, why do they care now? "They're asking for an audience. Your audience. Even at the stake of a suicide mission. They were trying to capture our own to grill information, but we caught them by the mouth of the valley before they could advance."

"How many," the Legate inquired, starting to move from the bed, grabbing for his trousers and shirt near the edge of the bed.

"Four, Malpais Legate," the young solider repeated, clicking his boots together; the hand by his side ran over the leather of his armor; he still wouldn't look in Six's direction.

"That's all?"

"Yes, sir."

"Dismissed," the solider paced back out of the tent – like he couldn't leave fast enough. The Legate stood up, making quick work at redressing.

-x-

Chilling from the rays of a cold moon amidst the desert's heat, protruding in the distance, did she see the bright assortment of burning crosses decorated with the children she promised to help. And try as the Courier might, she could not awake from the pageant of horrible nightmares. She could only cross her arms over her chest, and stare out from her captor's tent, quietly accepting the horror that reality was so hell-bent to show her.

Four of the NCR soldiers were children who drafted young into rank; they were all sent out to find her – running off on rumors; the NCR must be desperate in number to finally start using children.

The true nature of human looks her back in the face, and Six can only recoil back with unadulterated hatred and disgust. But this emotion is bygone; humans have always been corrupt and evil; we build only to romance and nurture devastating demise on the lesser.

Six thinks about her father alone in their small little shack on the outskirts of Genoa, Nevada. She was young and naïve, wearing huge straw sunhats and long skirts her father had a hand at sewing; she spent her days laying out on her porch, humming to the weary drawl of her father's rough fingertips plucking away at the chords to his ancient guitar; and when her grandmother was still alive, she'd listen to her sing. They were poor, and her father always struggled with job placement considering he's a ghoul – and an ex-Raider.

But he was her home, and she found great wealth in that.

Six understood the bases of evil; when she was younger, before her father's turning, she's seen him rob and kill – badgering settlers on the interstate for their caps in exchange for their life; she was young, she never understood the gravity to what her father was doing to honest people trying to make an honest living. And through the chaos and turmoil, her father paid the ultimate price for his transgressions: he lost his wife and his humanity.

Her father told her that her grandmother was the same way, but she denied it to her grave; her grandmother was a tribal who preoccupied church ruins with fellow tribesmen; she read from old hymns and considered them pretty and taught them to her once she asked for swing lessons.

Her grandfather came across the old tribe hoping to ramshackle their little ecclesial community, only to fall in love with one of the tribal women who threatened to blow his head off; he claimed he loved woman who could kick his ass. After the death of her grandfather, her grandmother took over the raider group – only to pass the rights down to her son; albeit he lost if all after his ghoulification.

Her father and grandmother were good to her, and she loved them horribly for that – continued to love them. Six, however, could never justify her family's actions, but the Legion - they're far worse than whatever her father, or grandmother could accomplish in their golden days at leading a band of savage individuals into the far reaches of the barren earth.

They taught her two valuable lessons: talk until you're unable to and kill before raising your voice. Two opposites. Two contradicts that oddly made sense to her.

When Six peered out and seen the erected crosses blazing in grotesque glory, only then did she find it appropriate to mourn. Down-casting gray eyes to the ground, rocking uncomfortably to the heel of her boots, holding herself a little tighter – trying her damn best to shoo away the abnormal amount of loathing she felt burn in her heart; trying to bite her tongue for that when she saw the Legate again she wouldn't lash out and gain his ire. And only then did she lift her gaze with the cacophony of legionaries' laughs and talking, haunted by the moon-cast figures of Legion soldiers march up the hill into camp. And only then did her anger heighten when she saw a few Legion boys lift an unbeknownst slave girl and dragged her away; the girl let out a dreadful scream to spare her, muffled once the men ducked into their own tent with her like primal monsters.

It was Death who was afraid by the cold extended hand of Man.

Six sees the Legate after the clearing of his men taking to bonfire; she's appalled but not surprised by his state of dress; stale blood clings to his clothing, hands stained with his dirty work. And when he pinpoints her amongst the crowded space of crowing men, she sneers at him. She throws back the tent flap, cutting him off from her gaze, retreating back in the dim reaches of the tent; and it's not soon after does the fabric from the tent ruffle and drawl back again, casting momentary shadows upon the moveable furniture that occupied the small living arrangements.

The Legate doesn't say anything, noting her off-stance and her retreat to sitting at the edge of the bed; he begins the removing of his bulletproof vest, uncannily letting the armor fall with an omnious thud; he pulls his pistol from the holster, rounding the bed where she sat, kneeling to deposit his weaponry in the secured steam truck Six had desperately tried to open in the past. His eyes fall upon her, and she's unmoved to look away – quietly challenging him, silently judging him for every wrong and lie he's made in his life.

"You killed children. You could've let 'em go," Six bites off on her shrewd wording, her raider heritage drawl, sizing him up for his insignificant worth; he lingers with the smell of burning wood and gore; she moves away from his approaching touch on her knee.

"They would have infringed on our operation. They would have consulted with their leaders. Wrong place and time," the Legate says, frowning over his Courier's dismissal. She brushed his hand away from her knee; he stands before her hunched over and brooding figure. "How are you feeling?" He tried his hand at changing tides in the conversation, inquiring over her health that she only mentioned a week prior; she hasn't felt well since then.

"It doesn't matter, does it, Malpais Legate? You should ask the children strung up on your crosses. Or a mother who lost a child! You should ask those poor slaves outside which dog they'll be gettin' fucked by tonight. You don't need to ask how I am; I already know who's fuckin' me! You ask 'em! Because I'm sure they have a whole lot more to say than I do," Six made her disdain well-known by the subtle curve of her bone-white fist at her side, but the Legate is indifferent; she could tell in his unyielding stance. In all her misery of being hidden for two months, only then did she finally crack under pressure, blinking back angry tears.

In her woeful display, the Legate stayed. He fingered the underside of her jaw, cupping her and jerking her gaze up; she swallowed in nausea, dealing with that weeklong unknown sickness; his blood-stained hands held her deathly still, dawning upon a static pause that only constricted in her chest - waiting on his unpredictable ways.

"You're a goddamn monster. I hate you. Oh, God – I hate you, Joshua," Six breaks the barrier with her broken-china voice. She says his name to convoy her internal grief, to make it personal and human for him; and only then did she rest her cheek against the palm of his hand and reached up to touch his sullied wrist with gentle hands that told of vindications rather than forgiveness; and that's what uneased the Legate about his fraudulent little courier. Still, his thumb brushed at the hollow of her face, swiping over fresh tears that stained.

"I know," it took the Legate longer to register her comment and respond with something akin to guilt. Having his name tied to three powerful damning words had him feeling like a child under his mother's disappointing gaze. He knelt down in front of her, leaning forward on his knees to lay his troubled head on her thigh; she responded in kind, running lulling fingers through his dark hair; a touch that merely contradicted her feelings, holding on to that festering vice in her heart. Her other hand tried to muffle out her sob.

"Have you always been like this, Joshua?" The way that Six says his name is not kind, but it was soft and soothing; she was manipulating him, making him feel that jousting memory of his dead youth. He knew this; she brought him down on human terms; a running theme in her act for blooded reprisal. The Malpais Legate finds his headlong folly in the arms of sweet Death; and sometimes he loved consulting with Death.

"No."

"When?"

She was to play whore, not make him doubt his moral standing – not make him talk and twist his tongue. He's killed plenty. Lived long enough on this world to spot tragedy before it struck; she was Delilah to his Samson. He fancied after things he could not kill, but could easily kill him with the right word, or the right touch.

"I – can tell you how it started. You deserve that much. I was born in New Canaan, Utah; a town built from the ruins of Ogden. I spent my formative years learning from my father to become a missionary; gentiles are easy to dismiss my people as shamans; and in some ways they are not wrong. New Canaan is a religious community; we believed that when Judgement Day comes – then our Lord will shepherd us to better lands. It…was a comforting belief – something I gave up after helping build the Legion. I like to believe it started there."

"Thought the world already passed Judgement Day," Six asked with morbid humor, a little surprised on his origins; it sounded wholesome – not a place where she'd settle, but wholesome. Her hand stilled, and he lifted his gaze at that, avid to place her curious expression; he looked for her lining of deceit and found none, but she was always a good liar. "Perhaps I'm not understandin'; I grew up completely different than you, I'm sure. And these missionary trips, what did they accomplish?"

"Not the Judgement Day we were looking for. I was a translator. That was the point to my missionary training. I traveled Route 89 south of Arizona and Interstate 15, spreading my people's beliefs to neighboring tribes; it was a fateful encounter that I met Caesar –"

"- Ah, but he wasn't always Caesar, was he, Joshua?" Six pressed, seeing how much she could pull from the Legate in his submissive state; her fingers curled in his short hair, still inwardly distressed by the off color of stale blood that clung to his hands. She played him like a harp, applying gentle pressure to the back of his head to lay him back down on her thigh; she seduced him with falsified kindness, a betraying notion that almost made her giddy that it was working. It was that history book science: women start wars, and end them with the right type of persuasion - with the right type of touch.

"No," the Legate pressed his lips to her thigh, mumbling against the fabric. He soundlessly fell into her ploy; and if he looked up he would have seen the painted arrogance on Six's face. "He was a man named Edward Sallow who worked with the Followers of the Apocalypse; I was instructed to meet with a man named Bill Calhoun, a physician who worked alongside Ed-Caesar; he and Caesar, along with six other members from the group, were dispatched to study tribal dialects and customs that were only becoming apparent in their region; they needed a translator. That's where I filled in."

Perhaps he was tired from his day of marching his men, but he lulled into her dishonest touch; a precarious action that only made Six smile harder and shake her head slowly with deceit; he was merely sharpening his own blade that'll one day stab him in the back. Delicate fingertips picked at the gray hair by his temples, which lead him to kiss the inside of her thigh; her stroke did not falter, already acquainted with his menacing touch.

"It may have been an error in my translation, but upon our visitation with the Blackfoot tribe – we all quickly discovered that we would not be allowed to leave without a price. It was by unfortunate grace to discover that the tribe we were held captive under were at odds with seven other neighboring tribes. Divide et impera – divide and conquer, is what Caesar said. Strike at their weakest enemies first. Caesar taught them the fundamentals of warfare; taught them how to clean and maintain their weapons, operate in small units, and create their own explosives to push back the enemy. The tribe was so impressed by his influence, they dubbed him their leader; the tribes were brought on trial, some pledged their allegiance while others – chose alternative methods not to align with our cause. Calhoun was distraught with this development; he constantly told Caesar not to get involved. But Caesar allowed him to leave and return back to the Followers and tell them of all the things he had done, executing the six others left behind."

"Why spare you," Six asked, "He had the Followers killed -,"

"I agreed to some of his brash methods. If you don't fight, you deserve to die. I continued my translations under his leadership, but soon enough translation became giving orders and giving orders became leading battle, training and terrorizing," the Legate trailed off, listening to Six's indifferent hum.

"It is not a route I would have chosen."

"I'm not you."

"You're right. I wouldn't have killed children. One day you'll answer. One day you'll pay for all the evil you wrought. Children died and you don't care."

"That's war, Courier. They knew what they were getting into when they enlisted with the Bear."

"You keep laughin' at Death, Malpais Legate, and one day Death's going to laugh back."

 _"She – already does."_

-x-

Six goes out to see the crosses in the morning; the wood is singed, crumbling under the blinding, bleach rays of the overbearing sun. She's repulsed, but she lovingly traces precautious fingers up the frame of a boy's cross. His body is a black disfigurement; head slumped down, still smoking – even in death he shows he has more courage than her.

"Poor baby. I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I'm so sorry -," Six swallows her words, looking down at the base of the boy's cross; she sees something protruding from the churned ash, sticking out in holy redemption, wrapped in forgiving leather.

 _It's a hunter's knife._


	6. House of Wolves

Chapter 6: House of Wolves Notes:

**Minor Update: Had the change the Legate's age from the previous chapters; instead of being 45, I made him fifty due to Legion founding date: 2247. Poor old Mormon dude.  
But y'all remember Mr. Burke from Fallout 3? He was 56 years old, and 19 year old LW would receive love letters from him if you used Black Widow perk. Haha.

"In the Fallout Bible it's mentioned that there's roughly one working car/automobile per every 200 people. While that number has likely changed, it shows that there's still working cars in the Wasteland." There's mentions that even the Legion had workable vehicles as well. (Nuclear engines, while extremely dangerous, last for a really long time.) The whole workable car concept in Fallout (a post-post-apocalypse) always baffled me. Cannot forget about the trucks and working train at Camp McCarran; lore-wise, of course. We're talking about 200 years, too. I'm sure there are ghoul mechanics out there who know how to get a nuclear car running like a song. (Like - I don't know - Raul?) Rubber and any alloys must have been a bitch to replace.

* * *

Humans are the most terrifying thing of all. Childhood monsters dare not compare to the grueling creatures that speak and think and roam these very lands; they're conniving and beautiful, brash – yet soft-spoken. The Legate's a handsome sort with silken words weathered by the consuming deserts; but true monsters look like anyone, they say things just like anyone, and make hollow promises just like anyone. Childhood monsters have left the night terrors, replaced with human habits and human minds; never let beauty and honeyed words constitute your core beliefs. Never let them devour your hopes and dreams and dismantle your fragile psyche.

Humans are the true plague in disguise, a festering blight that refuses to purge itself, a malignant cancer that continues to grow.

At night, Six can feel the weight of the Legate's arm thrown over her waist; his fingers curl in on her, mindlessly dragging his fingertips beneath her thin tank top. And that's the only thing she's wearing. She lays there, blind and fully awake, blinking through the darkness – praying that the Legate doesn't begin to suspect, doesn't begin to question the subtle change in her body. That, hopefully, he doesn't ask about a speculated pregnancy. Perhaps it was the paranoia eating at her, but she's not ignorant.

She knows what happens when two individuals share a moment; she's not blind to the outcome, nor to the three-month-long cycle skip.

And she knows that the blade tucked underneath the mattress lets her sleep better some nights.

But the morning sickness – that was unconditional.

The Legate, in all his brutal majesty, his wayward passion to purge the world and erect a perfect Empire, is a lonely man; Six could read that much out of him. He makes a petty captor, and all he seems to be good for is talking; though, only few words pass his barrier. It is only with gentle and manipulative persuasion does he speak to her. The off-bases behind this whole scenario is that the Legate talks to her like a husband who would console with his wife.

The Legate is still vile in every painted regard; he still lingers with the scent of charred wood and stale blood, his hands remained stained with the gore he plunged them in; he touches her with those same hands, speaking gentle hymns, asking how she was feeling today. There is no mercy in his motive, no kind words shared among his men, and failure usually resulted in public execution. Not greeting the Legate to his standards usually resulted in public execution. An off breath from one of his men could result in a public execution. No one was safe from the pyre, or the cross – save for Six; the Legate had no intentions of mutilating, nor damaging his property.

The camp is little; a few skirmishes dotted the exterior of the plot of occupied land; a half-way point to Nelson with the report of Silus being transported for execution. Six hates traveling with the Legate, but it felt good to actually leave his damn tent and walk.

It was there in that small tent, off the border from Legion camp, did the Legate coax her to top him.

Her hands press down on his abdomen, applying gentle pressure to lift herself off his hips and sink back down. The movement is a repetitive one that left a tight feeling in her gut; sharp – yet languid. It was supposed to be a quick fuck, but the Legate dragged it out of her, gripping the side of her hip while the other curled under his head; he slows her with patient strokes, enjoying the tight squeeze she had around him, the slow sway of her breast and the way she bounced on his cock.

The Courier, on the other hand, was content to cut the session short, hurrying him along to finish inside her like he always did – then leave her alone to clean; the tent that they're spending the night in felt to be designed for one-person inhabits. And while nights are usually chilled under the ashen glow of the moon, it was unbearably hot tonight; though, that could be hormones speaking to her, reminding her she's carrying shared genetics with a man she loathed.

The Legate, being a man of few words, has his moment of weakness; he lets out a long and exasperated groan from under her, clenching his teeth with the subtle roll of her hips. She leans forward on her knees, anchoring herself down over his body; her bare breast rub uncomfortably against the coarse material of his bulletproof vest, her hands move to firmly hold on to his shoulders, reeling him in. She's muttering her vulgarities against his flesh, dragging soft lips across the curve of his throat; a gentle motion that brings about an interesting response.

Both of the Legate's hands are now gripping her hips, curving down to brace the underside of her thighs, tipping her forward to quicken her pace. He breathes against her and she indulges his need for closeness, pressing her brow against his, allowing him to steal bruising kisses which causes her to sob with something akin to need.

"Joshua -." The way that she says his name just about destroys him; she always relished the uncertainty that crossed his expression when she reminded him that he used to be a good man, a decent man, wanting to survive on these wastes and spread his Lord's humble word. And all that it took was her simply saying his name in that hushed, high-roller voice; she was a girl he inspired wanting to know, he had little confidence in himself while growing up in his quiet – yet quaint – community. His Courier had all the earthly confidence in the world – even under Legion arrest; he could never imagine a girl like Six living in his sheltered community.

She's encouraging him to finish with heavy thrusts and bawdy comments; she's constricting him lovingly, velvety motions that spurs him on to slam up into her. He makes good on his promise to exhaust her beyond repair, possessively wrapping his arms around her lithe body, shifting his footing for leverage, and then arching his hips up to meet her. The motion is not kind and she lets him know of her heated discomfort with a sharp cry, but she's still pestering him, inciting him to let go of that pent-up stress; she rides him out, thick and needy.

And, when he does come, it's almost painful for him; he's still holding onto her, strength slacked by the excursion. He stays buried deep inside her and she feels so damn full by him and his release, stretched by the abuse – yet content by the savagery of the bittersweet end. He respires, keeping her pinned close to the aggravating fibers of his clothing while she was forced to fully strip for his benefit. Nevertheless, she finds odd comfort in the rise and fall of his chest under hers, the featherlike touch that glided across her skin and the roll of his tongue across her bottom lip.

The Legate allows her to lift her hips and disconnect from him, but he won't tolerate her withdrawing altogether from him; she's slick with his cum, but he hardly cares when she settles over his hip, over the fabric of his trousers, sliding down an inch on his body to give him room to adjust between them.

That was the problem Six had with the Legate, he's been awfully intimate with her – something that was all too loving. Like, he couldn't live without her company. That they honestly deserved each other in this fucked up world that they shared, drawling guns by dawn, passing wordless love songs at dusk. She's killed for fun, she's destroyed others to get what she wanted; good and honest people, too. She's a hypocrite, the embodiment to all this heartbreaking wrong. She justified her bloodlust with revenge and the right to all men and women.

Her father always told her: "If you're going out, lookin' for revenge, you best dig two graves; one for yourself and one for the individual who wronged you." Cradling the hand of revenge too close to the heart was her undoing, for it was revenge who lashed out and went for the throat instead. She deserved this. And she deserved to suffer for her transgressions, but she wasn't ready to accept that – not while her gaze lifted from the Legate's chest, staring at him through the thick of darkness, and he stared back at her with a half-lidded inquiry – stroking an unhurried hand down her spine.

"Well, look at you, ol' man. Tired," Six continues her façade, masking mental breakdowns with collectiveness. Her fingers curl in on the strappings of his bulletproof vest; she slowly sits up and the Legate follows the motion, dropping his rough hands to her hips which curved around and grasped her rear. He shifts them back, taking in the sight of her sitting pretty on his lap, spread over his legs, still wet with his evidence.

"Give me a few hours and I'll give you my answer," the Legate replied, gravelly and deep – menacing in the dark; he squeezes her, putting emphasis on his uncanny suggestion.

"A few hours," Six leaned in, taunting the man.

"You said it yourself, Aries. I am an old man," Six rewards him with a coy kiss that has to the Legate leaning forward; she's dealt with him for five months, and it is with morbid realization that she's become accustom to him – body and emotion. Like it or not, he was that protective barrier against her and the other legionary soldiers that wished to provoke harm.

Six is smart in her campaign for trust; she refused to fight him, refused to accept defeat and let herself go in a fit of depression. She still has a damn bomb collar around her neck, throwing herself completely in defiance will no sooner get her killed; if she played her cards right, if she could somehow trick the Legate that she's staying by his side for his benefit – then maybe she could negotiate her way out of the collar that weighed heavy around her throat.

She couldn't stop thinking about the life which grew inside her. What type of life could she provide her child? Its father is a madman hell-bent on dismantling the Mojave. Its mother runs New Vegas with an iron fist; she had more enemies than friends. Both parents are power-hungry; they both had a craving for destruction, but in different ways; the Legate's was militaristic, while Six's was constructive.

The thought of gender obscured her thoughts. The Legion killed infant girls, a duty usually placed in the hands of the father. Boys are stripped from their mother figures, placed in intense training, bred to find the women who birthed them subhuman in comparison to them.

The Legate will kill her child either way, by gender or war, and if her child survives the stress of war, the radiation and the Legate himself, she promised she'll raise this child. She promised she'll roam as far as she could – far away from the Legate, far away from the city that she loved and conquered.

Pregnancy won't slow her down, she's still reeling to pick up a gun and fire; it's that Raider blood that continued to push her to maraud and terrorize – even at the expense of bearing healthy children. She'll fight just as hard as a man.

She's working on time, though. There's only so long till the Legate begins to notice the change in her body.

Six tilts her head, pulling herself from a self-induced reverie; with precaution, she runs delicate fingertips across his jawline. She presses her mouth against his throat again, humming softly over his pulse point, leaving gentle kisses and bites.

One day she'll ruin him.

-x-

Six plays the hand that she's been dealt, but there is no rest in her gamble, no soft words spared for the wicked. She shuffles and stacks her chances, and while she's bordering off the edge – she is not easy to break. Not easy to fold. Not under the pressure of a foolhardy gamble and not under the watchful gaze of the Empire.

She absolutely loathed the Legate's tours to other camps.

Six stands by the Legate's side at the gates of a parched, yet small settlement. She saw the sun uncannily protruding from the sands of the hushed Mojave, and felt weak under the blinding and harsh glow. The age-worn buildings that dotted the camp housed a variety of men with similar and vile mindsets on what they expected out of this ongoing war.

Remote in the desert of the Mojave lies Camp Nelson in all its fear mongering glory; young boys decorated in recruit armor march in tune, listening to the hollow bark of their superior. After the siege on the Dam, Nelson became a popular nesting ground to groom young boys into the ranks as fodder for the frontlines; these boys know they're bound to die, but their mind are so deluded with the cause that they believe it's the right thing to do – their honest-to-God fate. Humanity, in their eyes, is defined instead by the ability to override the fear of death and the base instinct to survive.

Alone, Six has braced the untrodden wastes, she's paced through whipping gales of a sandstorm, shot and buried in a shallow grave. But as she watched the harsh conditions the children went through, what they trained for, it horrified her. It filled her with lethal dread – enough so that it had her hand touching her stomach, rolling fingertips across the small swell hidden well under her military jacket. She's three months along, running on borrowed time.

Six quickly dropped her hand to her side when she heard the Legate talking to her, touching the small of her back to walk her along, his other hand held the handle of a decent sized lockbox; she was unsure what was in the box, but she decided not to ask – not to question the unpredictable motive of Malpais Legate.

Six remembers the decanus, Dead Sea; an uptight fellow who didn't care too much for her puns, or her play on words which involved his name. However, the notably tall fellow by the decanus' side is new; between the chatter of men talking – over things that are less than important – she discovers that the dark skinned man is a Legion Courier who was assigned to deliver Silus back into the arms of the Legion on Picus' order. It was strange, really; something odd and vaguely familiar came from the brief exchange – like she had known the man from her past. And, perhaps, she had, but those bullets that scrambled her brain robbed her of immediate memory.

He looked to her with the same regard, but just like the Legate, this Legion Courier is hard to read.

She looked away.

And that's the last she'll see of the other Courier before the Divide.

Dead Sea leads them to one of the barracks, but before they enter the man stops and asks the Legate if it was wise to allow Six to follow. The Legate approves her entrance, but it's nothing pleasing. She feels sick – sicker than normal. The rotting bodies of two NCR soldiers take up the corner of the barrack; it's dark and unbearably hot – it was something out of weakness she had to touched the Legate's arm for support; she jerks her hand away upon touch, though.

Silus is bound by his hands, sweating out his grief; torture is evident: a busted lip, the lack of luster in his skin – it uneased Six. But she is no saint, she's had her fair share of prolonged murders, felt perverse satisfaction with them, too.

Clanden was the man's name, a mercenary contracted by the Omertas; a soft-spoken feller who plainly disturbed Six. When she found out that he was killing prostitutes and making snuff films for profit – Six lent her hand at the filmmaking business; she had Swank hold the back of Clanden's head while she drove a prostitute's heel into his eye socket. She laughed, of course. Kept the man alive for almost three hours, played with his eyeballs, hacked his arms off – then blowtorched his skin to melt the wound shut – keeping him from bleeding out. She kissed the hollow of the man's face, tasting the salt from his tears, enraptured by his induced sorrow.

She sold the holotapes to those who got off on that sort of thing; there's always a secret market running Freeside. She sent the funding to the families who reported lost children and parents over this man's horrendous crime. Just because this world is fucked, you don't have to be a nice person to be a good one. Men get arrested under casino rules, dogs get put down. Mercy was way pass her when it came to senseless murders of her own men and women; prostitutes, in her town, were just as honest as a farmer.

Six passed no judgement when she looked down at Silus in binds; Clanden had it worse, but Six figured the Legate would want the man alive long enough to mount him on the cross.

She remembers Clanden pleading for his life. Silus said nothing.

"Aries, I want you to leave," Six is standing in a pool of blood; she jerks her head up with the Legate's order, narrowing her eyes in blatant confusion. Her stomach turns with the sharpness in his tone; the rot and stale blood that lingered off the floorboards didn't make it any better.

"But – you told me to follow," Six softly retaliates, crossing her arms over her chest; she waits for the Legate's reply. Dead Sea stands off to the side, but steps forward to silently extend his services at punishing an unruly slave – like any honor bound legionary hound.

"Courier. Go." Six stands there for a moment, debating the gravity of the situation; she looked at Silus one last time before heading out of the barracks, irritated.

The door behind her slams shut, and she's left to her own devices in a camp she's hardly explored. The collar around her neck gives her free range, as long as the frequency was in good distance. Still, she swallowed her pride, taking in the grotesque backdrop of decomposing NCR bodies strung up on crosses and the chatter of soldiers setting flame to the pyre – readying themselves for nightfall.

She stands at the entrance of the barracks, unsure what to do; and it's a sad thing to acknowledge being so dependent on a man who's ruined her. She pushes that thought aside, berating herself for having doubts about her freedoms; she has to work hard, has to be vigilant. Wars have been won with words and kindness.

Backstabbing is a side benefit.

-x-

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to our program. This is Mr. New Vegas, and each and every one of you is wonderful in your own special way. I've got news for you: four months, ladies and gentlemen, going on five, and our doting gunslinger Courier is still missing; she went Costa Rica, vanished, around Red Rock Canyon with no Khan involvement. There are scattered reports and rumors that speculate that our Leading Lady of the Mojave may have finally found her final resting place on our fair dusty trails. But you want to know what I think? I think she's still out there, and I believe she has an Ace up her sleeve. Legion mobilize in droves, recruitment is at an all-time-high, so unemployment in the Wastes shouldn't be too much of a problem – if you're fine with the job description of dying early."

"On following news, we spoke to Courier Six's right hand man, Swank, on her whereabouts: "Naw, my pussycat is out there; if bullets couldn't take that smile, then nothing can. A girly needs space away from fat cats houndin' her. If I know my pussycat, she's gone for a good reason, but she'll be back – hopefully with good news, too." Stay classy, New Vegas, because I can't stop falling in love with ya."

The news report cuts, and a love ballad filters the speakers, starting off on a gentle harmony, "Wise men say only fools rush in -." Six turned off the radio by her boots, carefully watching the boy who preyed upon her.

This boy looked determined.

A scruffy chap with pale scars marring his body, deep brown eyes, and ash-blonde hair shaved down to the root. He's nervously holding his training javelin, twiddling with it in his hands. He schools his features the best that he could, but there was something off-based to his emotions – something that could be easily dissected with the right type of the words and the right type of kindness.

Six could see the boy's internal conflict, she found it damn strange that he was standing there, waiting to approach the tent that his Legate and his slave took residence in. Still, she looked around, finding her surroundings barren from any other soul – it was only her and the boy. The rest of the crowd must be in the mess hall.

Six sat close to the bonfire, overlooking the flames; she's mildly annoyed by the stare down. It grated on her nerves, or perhaps that was the hormones talking to her. She seemed angrier lately, less likely to accept any lip from the Legate; she's damn surprised that the Legate has been patient with her. She's had her fair share of yelling at him, and he sat back and listened to every heated word.

"Kid, what the hell do you want? You're makin' me nervous standin' like that," Six bites the bullet, and waves the boy down; he looked positively petrified by the rise in her voice. It must be a foreign concept to hear a woman yelling at someone bound to the Legion, but after a few heartbeats the boy moves in her direction, taking slow steps to the bonfire she occupied. "Anyone teach ya some goddamn manners? Probably not – ya'll ain't allowed to grow up with your mommas." She muttered the last part, bothered by that knowledge; her hand rested over the flat of her stomach – she's still small, still able to hide under her military jacket.

"I -," the boy swallowed down the tremble in his voice, "I wanted to see Courier Six. My commander talks about you. My Mom did, too." Six cringed with the boy's acknowledgement. He looked conflicted, unsure if he should sit on the log adjacent from her – overlooking the roar of the bonfire.

"Well, kiddo, here she is," Six deadpanned, the frown on her face deepened. Truthfully, she wasn't annoyed by the boy, she was more mad at herself for being caught in the first place – for bearing a child with a man she sworn to her father that she would kill. She didn't cry about it; she was too stubborn to pity herself. "And a boy in the Legion who knows his own momma? Well, I'll be damned."

"I've only talked to her once, before I was sent to Nelson for training. She's a slave, too. Centurion, Gaius Magnus is my father – I think she's his wife. I don't know," the boy mumbled, his posture slackened when he found that Six wouldn't berate him wholly for his approach. "I haven't seen my mom since I was ten – she had a lot to say about you. She said you were going to help the slaves one day. That I should follow you."

Six's expression softened, she offered him the seat next to her. Now he had her interest. "Gaius Magnus? Heard of him once, big sonofabitch from what I hear. Baby, how old are you?"

"Thirteen," the boy answered.

"Got a name," Six inquired, getting a feel for the child's true motive.

"Victus, but the others in my division call me Vic. Do you have a name? Or is your name actually Courier Six?" With great hesitance, the boy rounded the bonfire, sitting on the rotted log next to her.

"Well, hell. They call me Six at the Strip, but for you, Vic? The name's Aries." Six hasn't talked to anyone besides the Legate since her capture; she let her mask fall away, keen on this little conversation with the boy. "Now, let's talk 'bout this followin' business. Your momma told you to follow me, why?"

"I don't know. My – Commander, he tells me that you're dangerous. That you should die for your transgressions. He didn't – support the Malpais Legate's decision to keep you. I heard you fix problems, though."

"Is that all he said," Six asked, amused.

"No. He said that you're a bitch and a whore, too," Vic answered, laying his javelin on the ground, by his side.

"Ah – of course. We'll, ain't that the sweetest thing. A'ight, Vic, I'll bite. You were creepin' me out a minute ago with your starin'. You said I fix problems. Listen, Baby, I ain't in the right state to be helpin' – you know – with the Legate markin' his territory like a dog -."

"- I know you can help me with this! Please – I know I shouldn't be talking to slaves. Certainly not the personal slave to my Legate, but I know you can help me with this," Vic interrupted her; she realized, at that moment, it wasn't childlike curiosity that brought this boy to her, it was something greater – something horridly meaningful. "I remember my mom told me you can do anything! When I heard that the Legate was bringing you with him – I knew I had to see you. You're Courier Six! You help people all the time." He was frantic, Six was downright shocked by the fatal turn of an innocent conversation.

Six didn't breathe a word, she waited for the shaking words to roll off Vic's tongue, "My Commander – he's not like my other teachers. I want to serve my Legion, I want to be a valued solider. But -," she looked at him hard, dreading this wayward confession, this terrible twist in fate that brought her to Camp Nelson. In her gut she just knew where this was leading her, and she was already reeling to drawl a gun that's been stripped from her; her blade was tucked safely under the mattress at the Legate's camp. She always slept better having it there. "He hurts me. He – makes me do things that the other boys don't do. It hurts, Aries. He makes me see him every night, and if I don't go he'll make it worse on me. He said it's Legion right – the things that he does to me. You're Courier Six, you can do anything. You're Courier Six -."

The repetition of her title burns, Six sits there, watching this defeated child slump forward in fear. She's repulsed, but not surprised with the corruption that goes on between ranks. Every crude word she wanted slur left her in an instant. She had no words for him. She was in the same boat, but she figured her situation was better than his. The Legate never hit her, nor threatened the life out of her during her period of being held captive; he did force himself upon her, wrapped his hands around her throat if she fought. Two wrongs, however, do not make a right.


	7. No Rest for the Wicked

Chapter 7: No Rest for the Wicked Notes:

*Pais: The 'servant' was described in Luke 7:2 as being "valued highly" or "dear unto him" which is translated from the Greek word entimos that was used in this particular passage. The word entimos is where the word in English Intimacy was formed, which implies that this 'servant' was very 'close' to the Centurion.  
Pais, in simple terms, means same sex lover/servant.

* * *

Mayhem.

That's all he seems to be good at. His pain is constant and sharp, and while he strived to find better in his youth, he does not hope for a better world at his current age; even with conflicted, internal confession, there is no catharsis. His punishment eludes him, for it was the Legion who razed the NCR and sieged the dam five years ago; he's untouchable, something not even God could touch – could possibly pinpoint his folly.

He's won.

With a dispassionate expression, the Legate digs his fingers into the sensitive tissue of Silus' eye shocket; Dead Sea has the shamed centurion stuck in a choke hold, baring the back of his skull – keeping him in place, poised on a rickety old chair. The sound that comes from the man is inhuman, a haunting gurgle that escapes deep from his throat. Warm tendrils of blood trace down the Legate's thumb and ends at his wrist – dripping onto the floorboards; and for such a fragile fall, it sounded like an earsplitting splash to the Legate; it is a repetitive note.

The Legate embodies the notion of mankind; he has all the characteristics of being human: blood, flesh, hair, and skin; but not a single, clear, tangible, identifiable emotion, except for greed and lust and utter disgust for his fellow man – and towards himself; mostly towards himself. He's lethal, blooded, driven to have that mask of sanity slip by him. There was nothing poetic he could spin for his downfall; he's plagued the world with the Legion for thirty years, now; he's reserved his lawful residency in Hell.

Illusory, delusive, something fathomable he could muster up to emotion.

Silus stomps on the floorboards, evading the Legate's haunting plunge; he's too slow, too damn greedy with his time. But, goddamn, why is he still alive? The pain is inhuman, unfathomable; there's shock mixed into the malicious dilemma; he's blind, but he can feel something wet running down his face – dripping off his stubborn chin.

"Stop. Fighting," the Legate's tone comes from a direct order, but Silus has no honor, now – he thrashes against the bindings of his chair and from the hands of Dead Sea who kept him in place; Dead Sea tightens the choke hold, stilling the man in his torment while the Legate slowly worked the eyeball from its socket, dragging along his optic nerve. The older man dares not flinch to the sight of gore; he's accustomed to it, and would considered it an oddity if he didn't see it once during his waking hours.

"Dead Sea," the Legate calmly addressed, pulling the last threads of Silus' sight. "Give me your knife." He's going to smell of blood, and he knows his Courier loathes it; she'll get over it.

Metallic sounds across leather, and in the dim lighting, Dead Sea retrieves his hunting knife; he points the handle in the Legate's direction, and he gingerly accepts the weapon, pulling back – studying the stain metal in his hands.

"There's a price for treason," the Legate says, coldly. Leaning forward, gripping the weapon like a common practice.

"I never told them anything," through his pain and shock, words still pour from Silus' mouth; he's a goner, blind to the world. Dying seemed like the only option. But when he felt the Legate's hand grip underneath his jaw and angle him upright – he knew he was leaving without his tongue.

-x-

Commander Romulus is nothing more than a veteran officer on a power trip; he's responsible for teaching Caesar's future army. His technique is brutal, strenuous, but it was acceptable with Legion regulations; in fact, it was encouraged to run younger recruits to the point of exhaustion – even to the point of death. The children who died under his influence were founded unfit. They were seen weak, unacceptable, and entirely dishonorable to Caesar's perfect Empire. Through Commander Romulus' methods, he weeded out the undesirables and lame, and praised the genetically fit and able ones.

Commander Romulus runs on schedule: he gathers his young recruits in the middle of Camp Nelson, catching the daily glimpse of NCR soldiers rotting away on crosses, watching their skin fall from hollow bone, baking under excessive heat. He then instructs a twenty Roman mile march, an equivalent to eighteen miles through the unforgiving deserts, under the blistering sun with little water to drink. After the march, the boys take arms with wickerwork shields and wooden stakes; they learned courter-strikes, strikes, and various moves in attack and defense. They ended the day on a late note, maintaining weapons under the waning sun, crowding mess halls after the older recruits had their fill.

Commander Romulus sneers at the Courier and the company she held. And, while she is a slave, she belonged to Malpais Legate – a menacing favorite – any harm to befall her would be marked as treason due to her nature of being seen as property. A punishment that may worsen with the impending gossip that the Legate may actually make a bride out of her under Legion law; something else the Legate could demoralize the Courier with, and remind her of her place.

But that is only gossip.

Gossip also weighed heavy that the Legate may be soft on the Courier – that he desires her to be his equal under his leadership – much like a little wife. His morals haven't changed; he was still a ruthless adversary that executed and enslaved tribes, small settlements and refugee camps; he showed no remorse killing women and their children, nor stringing fathers and husbands up as their families watched while being herded away like cattle. He would ignore the Courier's bruising words and complaints, begging him to show them mercy. The Legate ignored her every time. And made her watch a society fall to its knees.

The Commander would never fully question his Legate's taste; he knew his place, understood his rank, position and how easily he could be replaced, but he had to wonder: why her? The recruits believed it to be for breeding purposes, or revenge through humiliation – that the Legate would sooner kill the Courier after she served her purpose and was found boring company. The Legate is oddly faithful to the Courier; it wasn't so long ago, and on good word from gathering priestesses who tended the showers, that the Legate was a regular; that he sought the company of many women who would not deny him.

Gossip, however, is sooner met with a gun; discussing your better's lifestyles would result in punishment and public shaming.

"Courier Six," the Commander walks over. He's poised: strong hands stick to his sides, head held high, looking positively miffed over the sight of the Courier's hand on Victus' shoulder; her fingers curled in on the boy's fabric protectively, keeping her haunting hollow-point grin in place. With a quick flash, her eyes catch the Commander's, and they share a mutual understanding of hate for each other; they hardly knew each other, but stories and rumors is all that they needed: he based her life on rumor, and she's listening to every horrid story that Victus has to tell about Romulus. "I've heard so much about you."

"Yea, well, tell someone who cares," jaded, Six holds on to that bitter resentment for the sickening man. Victus tries to move away from her touch, tries to show his better respect, but Six pulls back. She bites off on a sly grin.

"I'm sure your master would care that you're talking to Caesar's youth; a woman cannot be trusted alone with impressionable young recruits – it can make them weak," the Commander noted, eyes averting to the attention of Victus who took the role of salute; while Six's hand found its place on the boy's shoulder, he still remembered protocol; balling a strong fist and placing it over his heart. "Ave," The boy greeted.

Morbidly, that's why the older man took a liking to the boy; he followed orders and knew his place. "You're risking punishment for the boy, Courier. That being said: why is my recruit fraternizing with Malpais Legate's whore?" Though, honestly, the Commander was rather enchanted to the idea of having a higher rank among boys who could not say no to him.

"Whore, eh? You take one Legion dick, you've taken 'em all, am I right," the Courier shrugged, holding courage like she was dressed in her black armor; she's small, she looks fragile, but she is far from feeble. The Commander suppressed the urge to backhand her, wanting to wipe that smug look off her childlike face. Perhaps that was her purpose, reeling him in on an honest ploy – only to pull her line back to his folly. He supposed that the Legate wouldn't take kind to another man abusing his possession; this wastelander little doll. "And the kid here was just showin' me to the mess hall. No worries here, partner."

"The boy has training that he is neglecting. He does not have time to help an incompetent slave make her way around camp. Do you not hear your fellow soldiers, Victus," the Commander inquired, stern in every regard. The fist at the boy's chest faltered; he felt foolish, forgetting time when he had none to spare. "Answer me."

"I apologize, Commander Romulus," the boy's stern voice sounds aloof, disconnected; he stands there with a taut expression, ready to fall under unmerciful eyes with tall tears stinging the sides of his eyes; he is scared.

"Wait, wait! Romulus, right," before Victus followed in tune with his Commander back to the training grounds, Six stops them both; there's desperation in her voice, a keen sense of awe that even has the Commander reeling on her intentions. Her expression dropped, wiping the smile and her pride along with it. She's a decent sort with her long red hair, and her civilian clothes – a higher tier slave who never donned the red-x marking over her cloth; she had the collar around her throat tell others that she was owned.

"That's Sir to you, Whore," the Commander's boots clicked together, turning back on the girl.

"Right, right. Sir," the Courier did her best to halt that process to anger, she favored her silver-tongue to get what she wanted, "I was honestly lookin' for you, actually. Malpais Legate informed me he was lookin' for a Commander Romulus. If I had known that you are Commander Romulus – well, forgive me, Sir. I had no idea."

"Are you lying to me? I would have been authorized before his arrival. If you're lying to me, let it be known that I play for blood, Courier. The Legate will hear of your transgressions against one of his own. You have my word," Victus looked to the Courier with mild wonder, wide-eyed and silently questioning; she ignored him fully, refusing to break eye contact with the Commander. She was scheming something.

It would be a longshot, but she had to think of something fast – something before the Commander had the time to pull the boy to the side and take what did not belong to him.

"Do I have room to lie? That's what the ol' man told me. Y'all be meetin' at the bonfire, open area, at eight. Don't get all suspicious with orders, Sweetheart. I don't think Malpais Legate wouldn't be all too fond with your suspicions. 'Sides, would you really want to risk standin' up your Legate?"

There's a static pause between the two adults. With reluctance, and to the Courier's malicious delight, the Commander agreed to meet with the Legate by eight.

Courier Six did what she does best: lie.

-x-

She finds wire hidden within an old wine cupboard. The material is thin, but tough enough to withstand a stressful pull; the raw wire, with the right type of strength, could cut into flesh. She coils the material around her palm, running off time and burning sunlight.

After the minor altercation with Commander Romulus, Six made quick work retreating within the confines she was sentenced to on Camp Nelson; the camp itself is dotted with several ruined homes and cabins, rundown cottages that could be homey if the Legion cared about personal wellbeing rather than unity directed towards a madman on his throne. But this is where the Legate slept, and it was where she was stored – along with his other personal belongings such as two lockboxes she couldn't crack into and a steam trunk that contained their clothing.

She'll be damned if that boy spends another night with that man; she only has an hour left to think of something fast, think of something secretive. The Legate would have to return at some point, hopefully soon to initiate the next step in her flawed plan. It would have to be something big to convince the Legate that the Commander has lost his usefulness.

There is a matter of her pregnancy.

Six hated being alone with her whirlwind thoughts. She slipped the wire into the pocket of her military jacket as backup, keeping poised on the wooden floorboards, baring full weight on her knees. She lifts her gaze, staring heavenward to catch her breath, to fully grasp onto the concept of using this child for her own benefit; horrible things in life happen for a reason, fate is a drawn out process that could provide a boon or damnation, Six sought out personal wealth, and it had nothing to do with material possessions.

Like clockwork, the door opens without warning, and Six is looking rather strange close to the floorboards, behind the wine cupboard on her knees. The Legate stares at her long and hard, eyes narrowing, silently questioning her abstract behavior.

"W-well, look at you, you had a party and didn't think to invite me," Six noted the off-color of dark red; stale blood clings to the Legate's rolled up sleeves. There is evidence that he tried to clean himself before entering the cabin the two of them shared, but it would take a whole lot more work than just a damp washcloth. The cloth itself was saturated with the same haunting coloration. She knows Silus is not dead; torture comes before execution, much like a dinner date to hitting the sheets.

"What are you doing," the Legate didn't say anything about her stutter, but he wasn't going to dismiss it, either. He knows Courier Six, she doesn't stutter, not even under pressure – not even if it was her life that was on the line. She prided herself on her silver-tongue and her business ethic; if one is to run New Vegas, they should be able to read expression and quirks, and that's what she fed on, no one could out lie Death.

"Oh, you know me, checkin' the cabinets for spare cigarettes; seems y'all are pretty thorough when it comes to havin' no fun," Six reaches up, grabbing the edge of the counter to help herself up; it's a clumsy motion, making the Legate all the more suspicious over her intentions. She flashes him an uncharacteristic smile – as if she was sorry for not properly greeting him.

"You know I'm just going to throw them away, Aries. Why do you insist on crossing me," the Legate stepped away from the entrance of the shack, closing the door behind him, signaling a click that represented privacy. He leaves his bloody rag on the counter, leaving Six cringing over the discoloration; it wasn't the sight of blood that bothered her, but the smell; she's felt weak for far too long.

"Why? Darlin', it's what I live for. If I don't have a feller hatin' me, I'm not doin' my job," Six makes light on his appearance, starting off conversation with teasing. If she could catch him in a good mood, then possibly he'll be of some use to her. "Got a lot of blood on that shirt there; a half dab of ammonia and water will keep ya lookin' crisp. Or, ya know, you can continue walkin' around like a pissed-off heathen."

She rounds the counter, halting him in his pace towards the bed, touching the crook of his arm; he frowns down at her, watching her thumb at the material of his shirt; she crossed boundaries by fingering over the clasps of his vest, but he let it slide – curious over the nature of her moment of nurturing.

"Yea, that's the look I'm talkin' 'bout, ol' man." Six mutters, but the Legate has no retort for her, allowing her to unclasp the bulletproof vest for him.

However, his suspicions outweigh his indulgence; his hand catches her on the last clasp, jerking her hand away, narrowing his fingers around her small wrist. "What do you want?" Courier Six wants many things, she craved completeness and stability – even though she wasn't the most stable person. She tries to put a front up, keeping true to her notorious hollow-point smile and brimming confidence that sometimes charmed Fiends and Powder Gangers.

"Can we talk in confidence," she coyly remarks, slowly pulling back her hand from his grasp; his grip tightens around her. She relaxed, trying to gain his favor with patience. After a pregnant pause does the Legate release her, allowing her to slide back and motion towards the bed. That was fine with the Legate, he wanted out of his bloody clothes.

"I'm confident in knowing that I want to sleep, but you have my attention," the Legate knew his Courier was leading him into a ploy; it all depended on what she gained out of this – and what she needed out of him. She fucked him for a radio. A damn radio. Any knowledge about the outside world – beyond camp – made her desperate. But, Hell, she was a good lover.

"Well, look at you, bein' so considerate and sweet to a gal like me," Six waits for the Legate to sit on the edge of the bed, and she follows him when he does by sitting on his knee. She encourages him to remove the bulk of the vest, sliding off his shoulders and hitting the bed soundlessly. Her fingers run over the rough material of his shirt, made worse by the stale blood. Still, she played off his ego of having him believe that she needed him fully.

"I wanted to talk to you 'bout that feller, Commander Romulus, drillin' those kids," Six wished the Legate showed blatant emotion, it would make explaining her cause a whole lot easier. She wasn't use to asking someone permission to kill, if someone crossed her, or if they're considered a hazard to other humans, she usually got the job done with her own brand of a burning bullet. Her fingers curled in on his fabric, holding steady on his lap. "Funny thing is, one of his youth came moseyin' my way, claimin' they've heard of me."

"That is not surprising," the Legate notes, "You were the hostile enemy before capture."

Six tries not to frown at that, a distasteful stab at her confidence. "Naw, this kid learned of me through – another slave. This kid – well, he told me things you should know 'bout in regards to Romulus," the Legates waits her out, and she continues on with that acknowledgement. "

"You're lying. It's against code for the youth to talk to slaves. No young recruit wants to risk corporal punishment by his superior officer. I do not appreciate this, Courier –."

"I'm not lyin', Joshua! Why would I lie 'bout somethin' like this? We're talkin' 'bout a kid," Six intersects, voice pinched off on stress. Her expression drops, revealing a face that resembled panic at wanting to be believed.

"Give me a good reason," the Legate looked over the fact that Six cut him off midsentence at berating her.

"I'm – well, hell. I'm pregnant. That a good enough reason for you to listen what I got to say? Why would I lie 'bout somethin' so close to home," Six finally says; she dreaded her confession. This was a sacrifice on her end; the Legate was never meant to know that she was bearing, she had hoped she found a way out – but by her condition and her means – she'll do whatever she could to help this boy who was nothing but a stranger to her. "Imagen if we had a son, 'cause I know you Legion types live for that, and he was learnin' under men like Romulus. How would you feel knowin' that your son is being takin' advantage? This boy came to me, tellin' me what his – Commander does to him every night." She's desperate and it's entirely unbecoming of her. Her deliria only heightens when she fails to gauge any emotion out of the older man.

"How long," the Legate calmly inquires.

"Romulus or the baby?"

"The pregnancy," the Legate clarified.

"I'm guessin' three, almost four months," Six laments, "That's around the time I started to notice. I ain't stupid, and you're not too subtle 'bout what we do at night."

"And what exactly do you want me to do about Commander Romulus," the Legate regarded her, rolling off on his graveled tone.

"Let me kill him."

-x-

"Fucking cunt! Shut up! The only good use for your mouth is having a cock shoved in it. That is the purpose of all woman – something that your master neglected! Malpais Legate, you're taking the side of your whore? They were right about you. You're weak! Weak for a profligate slut. If you follow her you're bound to find folly. Men can only find their ruin in women. You and your Courier Six will pay. The Empire will crumble under your crippling leadership. You're too old for the art of war!"

Malpais Legate made good on his promise by meeting the Commander by the bonfire with Six in tow; she played her part and remained submissive while the two men talked. The Legate congratulated the man for his effective teaching method; the two men continued to talk as they walked out of camp, close to the mountain walls, a klick away from the camp itself; the Legate told the Commander they had much to discuss away from prying ears, and like a lamb to the slaughter, the Commander believed his Legate like a respectable solider.

"Why, Sweetheart, you look like somebody just walked over your grave," Six says, cheerfully. Romulus is bound by his hands, curtsy from the Legate. She lowers her body, catching him on eye level, taunting him for his weakened position. The man doesn't deserve to die like a solider, he's receiving an execution that would bruise his ego: death by a woman.

"If you turn on me you'll regret it," the Legate mumbles, releasing the magazine from his forty-five, handing her the empty gun. He expects her to beat Romulus to death with it, and Six hardly flinched by the notion; she believes she'll find satisfaction in that, just like the time she prolonged Clanden's death during the length of that snuff film.

"My fight's not with you, Whore. I'm talking to your master," Romulus jerked his head from Six's gaze, barking at the Legate who stood to the side, waiting for Six to carry out her wish. The Legate listened to the man's plea, but made no comment. "No cunt's that good to betray your own men. Caesar will see you burn, Malpais Legate. You and your whore."

"I beg to differ, sir. We started a game we never got to finish. "Play for Blood," remember? No rest for the wicked and all that jazz. I'm ready to swing – either way. I got no tolerance for a monster who hunts out the innocent – out of children you teach. Naw, sir. Sir? That's what you wanted me to call you, right? Well, sir, the butt of this here gun and your face are 'bout to be well acquainted." Six stands and her grip around the gun tightens, anticipating her own swing.

"Go to Hell," Romulus bit off, seething; His knees sunk into the sands, pulling against his restraints.

"You first." The end of the pistol in her hands softly touched the underside of Romulus' jaw, inclining his hateful gaze to her. And she smiles that horrid fucking smile, the sort of smile he could only imagen the Devil himself carries.

"Have mercy," the fight in Romulus drains, accepting his situation. If he could not sway the Courier, he sought his Legate.

"Mercy," the Legate finally answered him, "You're asking the wrong man for mercy. Ask God for mercy. It does not depend on the man who wills or the man who runs, but on -."

"Batter up!" The skull to gun ratio is a sickening distance; when metal collides into skull the results prove to be devastating. Romulus wheezes on impact, as if he was struggling to breathe – as if he was choking on his own blood that fell short in his throat. Six didn't care, she laughed. She laughed over the Legate's calming words and the morbid ping in one hollow, almighty swing. She was damn proud of her hit, mothered it, and glanced over at the Legate hoping for approval.

"-God who has mercy," the Legate finished on that note, idly watching Six circle her prey like a bird picking at bones during a dry spell. He waits, letting her express her anger out on someone other than him; it was for good reason, too.

"Homerun!" A pattern of blood soaks into the dry sands of the Mojave; Six parades the man, savoring her first kill in months. She's pregnant, she's fairing degrees of mad, and she still hated the weight of the collar around her throat – but at least she's able to assert some control; that just because she's with child it didn't make her dainty.

No, it only served to make her angrier.

"You're no daisy! You're no fuckin' daisy at all! Poor soul, you were just too high strung," Six screamed, echoing faintly off the ever-changing backdrop of the Mojave sands. She put all her weight into the next swing, ending fragile life that barely meant a damn. Gore pools within the shifting sands, absorbing within the warmth of the night; pieces of bone are exposed, bloody and fragmented. Romulus features are hardly recognizable by Six's brute strength, listening to the familiar tune of revenge.

"Courier," after a good amount of swings does the Legate call to her, briskly walking in her direction. She ignored him, dropping to her knees to continue her bleeding swing.

"Aries, stop," the Legate tries again, a little rougher this time.

"Aries, stop! You've made your point. He's dead. You're beating a corpse," the Legate has to pull her back by the waist, hoisting her body up, keeping her hovered over the battered corpse that laid deformed by her hand. "He's dead." The gun fumbles from her hands, hitting the sands all too softly; she struggled at first, reeling on maddening depression that ultimately left her sobbing. She felt the tears sting the corners of her eyes and the constriction in her throat; her head drops, staring down at the dead man. Her shoulders shook on her intake.

"I can't give back innocence to a child! He's dead, but what 'bout that boy in camp? That kid, Victus, he's just a baby. Goddamn, he's just a baby fightin' a war he has no business fightin'," for the first time since her own biological discovery does she consider the life that grows within her. She feared her child would be subjective to the same fate. "He's just a baby, Joshua. And that man robbed him."

"And now you've taken from him, Aries," the Legate is not a kind man, there's no sympathy in his tone. Empathy does not come natural, and all that talk of his youth seems all too distant – too abstract – to be considered the same man. "You'll have to live with that being good enough."

And the Legate left it at that.

-x-

Through the treachery of the sandstorms, he remembers peering out and seeing the red glow of her gasmask in the distance; a stoic figure clothed in black, her tailcoats whipping wildly with the almighty gales of the howling Mojave. She's so damn quiet, but her personality is loud and boisterous, a godless woman walking headlong into the biting winds – just to reach out to him and propose shotgun diplomacy.

And now Death belongs to man in a physical sense. Or is it Death playing man? The Legate could never tell.

Courier Six can be a heartless woman in a sense; and he knows he certainly deserves the vexing look she down-casted – those inhuman gray eyes locking on to his deathly cold gaze; the heel of her boot digs into his shoulder and he leans forward, bracing a hand underneath her thigh and pressing forward, bending her knee up. In all this inhuman uncertainly and morbid attraction – they refused to break eye contact; marring one weaker than the other if they did.

She's probably the only woman in the wastes who could outsmart him; the only damn woman who could give him pause and reconsider his actions before being caught dead in her crosshairs.

"Don't you dare look away," Six warned; her hold on the Legate's hair was painful as she inclined his gaze; fingers curl in dangerously, pulling him in closer. He's allowed to run his tongue across the fabric, tracing her sex through the thin cloth. He can obey that much, watching her intently from between her thighs; his solemn features contradicts her hollow-point grin, ignoring the dull pain of her nails digging into the back of his scalp. "You must be mighty pathetic to be lookin' for company with your enemy, eh, ol' man? Numbers don't look good. They never look good."

In this brutal reality, Six is just as obsessed with power as he was; she had limits on her megalomania, while he sought to dominate and destroy virtually everything – she just caught him in a vulnerable state – at a vulnerable time; and he didn't mind the exploit; it was almost fitting that she was carrying his child, a woman like that is bound to produce strong-willed sons and wayward daughters; he had mildly hoped they would have her red hair.

"Somethin' tells me you're startin' to care for a gal like me. Don't worry, Legate, Darlin', you can tell me anything," Six bites off on a sigh, chuckling dully under the pressure, under the brightly-wrapped delusion. The Legate frowns when he watches the delicate motion of her other hand reach down and touch his bottom lip; her thumb curled in mincingly and he nipped at the tip, allowing her access to his mouth; her heavy boot moves from its perch, garnishing his shoulder with a propped up knee. "Well, I'm damn confident enough to say you're in love with me, right?"

The power trip had his cock hard, protesting the jeans he was wearing, but he ignored the burden and posed hesitant – waiting on the drawl of her hand to allow him entrance at the apex between her thighs; he didn't enjoy the things she said in that little high-roller voice of hers, fearful that some of the accusations she named could be ultimately true; he tells himself he respects her, or something akin to respect – lawful fear? She wasn't pleased by his self-reassurance, watching him attempt at sliding his own hand over the front of his trousers and palm his erection through the rough fabric.

Six hummed with content as she moved her hand away from his mouth, slipping two fingers around the fabric of her underclothes, pulling the flimsy fabric to the side, holding down the fabric for exposure purposes; she keeps her fingers tangled in his short dark hair, coaxing him to go down on her; he willingly complied – all too gingerly, in fact. There's dark amusement in knowing she had the second-in-command to the Legion eating her out, controlling the motion, too; it all depended on the pressure she applied to the back of his skull. She is ruthless. Six is all about mental manipulation, while the Legate stuck to physical methods.

The Legate hunkers down flat on his stomach; he moves one hand to graze the sensitive skin over her hip, enjoying the off tremor from under his mouth and the notable tension at her thigh; his other hand covers her grasp, the one that held the fabric to the side, he silently swayed her to let him deal with it. The audible exhale she made spurs him on to greater things, flattening his tongue over her folds and dragging up.

Six mutters her hotly vindication under her breath, carefully watching the Legate's languid movements; she applies pressure to the back of his skull, baring helpful weight; he settles on her clit, rolling lazy swipes across the sensitive nerves. He closed his eyes for a moment, enduring the hurried grasp of her hand applying weight – forcing him close to the skin.

With an exasperated grind of his teeth, the Legate pulls back from her, allowing her knee to slip from his shoulder and follow her hateful touch; he sits up with the shortcoming movement, permitting her fingers to slip from his hair to the collar of his shirt and pull forward, while he attempted to lay over her and make claim on her warm body.

"Yes," the Legate finally says, halting Six's objective to finding a meaningless completion. She looked at him, obscured to the abrupt agreeance. Between the pause, she tried to decipher the meaning, carefully watching him through her dim settings like a startled animal.

"Yes to what," Six inquired, unkindly, tugging on the Legate's collar and signaling him to smother her down on the bed. She attempted to settle under his form, willing spreading her legs and personally nestled him between them. She can feel him thick and hard through the fabric, and imaged that it must be painful for him to be restrained behind the rough material of his trousers; still, she pestered him, tempting him to ease his full weight upon her lithe body by languidly grinding against him.

"Don't make me spell it out for you, woman. I'm a lonely old fool and you're a foolhardy young girl. There's shepherded kindness in you – but you – you kill like the world's done you wrong. It's something I can appreciate, admire, and aspire for over the creation of our children. A woman of your caliber is a rare breed, a godsend. You're the only documented woman who almost crippled me on my frontlines," she blankly stares up at him, stilled in her efforts. She's annoyed by such a confession, she didn't want to talk about children – certainly not with him – but that was their reality.

"Well, ain't that poetic, Darlin'. Listen here, stupid man, you go 'bout lovin' a girl for almost killin' ya – well, let's just say this will only end in tears for the both of us: remorseful, joyful. Joyful on my end, of course," the Courier attempts to bring him down again, but the Legate is resilient to her impatient pull.

"I'd rather be oblivious to the outcomes. Do not ruin this for me," she hears the metallic drag of the Legate's zipper, and sighs over the relief that he was finally coming around.

"I'll end up killin' you one day. I ain't soft for ya. I ain't -," Six sharply gasps, indulging the feel of the Legate's knuckle brush over her while he worked at aligning himself. "I don't care 'bout all your fancy words and pretty promises. You're an evil man; there's no forgivin' what you did to me. I would have never had guessed that you have a heart to love with."

"I wouldn't expect anything less out of you. You're right. You're always right. But caring, and being cared for, is something of an oddity."

"It ain't love you're feelin' for me, Sweetheart. It's loneliness. I figured you love the idea of ownin' me, like you want to hold value in my life. Possession and careless love ain't in the same ballpark. You got the world, baby, but at what price?" Her lips touched his jawline, dragging out a pleased hum from the man.

"Humanity, a set of morals -," the Legate lists, brushing his length over her folds, bumping her clit in the process.

"-We all can't be perfect in this great big dustbowl. What are morals to people in power? You and I have no right talkin' 'bout morals: New Vegas. The Legion. We kill to advance, we kill for fun, and we kill to aspire to greener pastures. We are the same. However, I never pinned you a sentimental fella."

"I was not always like this," the Legate affirmed.

"Right. A religious man. A preacher, whatever. Well, Father Graham, pray for me. Might do my soul, and yours, some good," Six mocked, annoyed by the distraction of his common ramblings. "We're all going to Hell. You might as well fuck me."

"Eloquence never eludes you, I see."

"You want pretty words? Next time don't kidnap a backwater ex-Courier, Raider's kid. Try for one of 'em eggheads in the Followers. There ain't nothin' pretty 'bout what you're doing, but I'll make somethin' out of it."

"It's true, you are a good woman. Then again, you may be the antichrist." The Legate wasn't the one pulling the strings. It was Six who manipulated him; who swayed him with honeyed words. Men find ruin in women: it's what Romulus had said. The Legate hardly cared for the folly Six is bound to show him if that was the case. "You're a beautiful women, Aries. You're hard to forget – hard to give up. It's an addicting feeling."

"You run your mouth awful reckless for a man that don't go heeled. You're talkin' religious; thought you didn't believe in whatever you followed in your missionary days," the Legate finally bears weight on her, slipping within her in one solid stroke. "Beautiful, you say? Why, Legate, sentimental and the daisy type?"

"I don't," the Legate pulls a rare smile in the dark, thinking on her brutal kill. He lays over her fully, tucking his arm behind her neck while the other gripped her hip, foiling her amusement with shallow, off-beat thrusts. His brow touches her, and he closes his eyes to savor her, concentrating on that hold she had around him.

"Don't give me that," Six worked to jest, biting off on remorse when he bottoms out. "Oh, God, Joshua." She feels pleasantly full and stretched, digging her heels into the small of the Legate's back. She tightens around him, arching lovingly against him, persuading him to a comfortable rhythm – challenging him to abuse her muscles just right. He swallows down her words of reassurance, melding comfortably with her; he's familiar with her body, and he indulges on that fact. She claims she has no use for him, but he takes advantage of these small moments when she's calling out to him – touching him with an air of kindness, telling him she loved the way he could make her work.

In her moment of deliria, weakness strikes, and Six looks up at him with an expression he's never seen before; he stares down at her, studying soft features and wide gray eyes, a hidden innocence he's not seen on anyone in a long time. This look unknowingly wounded him; it's a sharp feeling, hard to pinpoint, but he slows on whatever vulgar thing he wanted to act upon. He keeps himself connected with her, and it's all too intimate, all too horribly foreign, because he's not just fucking her now – this was different, and he felt like an outsider to this type of emotion.

Six reaches up, curling her fingers behind his neck, mapping up his nape with precarious fingertips, threading her fingers through his dark short hair. Without words and with anxiety drowning his thoughts, he leans down and follows her kiss, chasing pleasure with caresses rather than brunt penetration that usually had her swearing. It was slow, warm, and horribly felt like home.

She may kill him in more ways than one.


	8. Weigh us Down

Chapter 8: Weigh us Down

She's a persistent little flower.

Dainty by name, but dainty she was not. It often made the Legate think back on her awe-inspiring glory days. It was an odd thing for him to recollect on, indulging in a sense. Where his house of memories didn't quite build to her structure – not in debauchery, but on religious foundations; she told him to pray for her out of spite, out of mockery towards his heritage, something that he's not done in the past thirty years – where he was a spry young man with soft words and a soft heart.

He thinks on her lucky streak and high-roller pride; she's tossing sevens, spinning roulette, cashing Aces with face cards. Caps are important to her; they flowed in like honey as long as she kept appearance, her personality kept sharp, and her hand remained quick. The semi-anonymous Courier Six is rare bird with unorthodox views, morals often misplaced, but she meant well in the grand scheme of things; she could be doing a lot worse for a Raider's daughter and a tribal woman's granddaughter.

Sunlight pours in through the holes of a bygone roof, signaling the birth of a new morning and the urge to move out of bed. The Legate, however, lays idle. He studied the sleeping posture of his bedmate, taking in bare curve and a relaxed expression; she is a hard woman to sleep next to, she moves and squirms and pulls at the bedding. But when she relaxes, when she unwinds and falls asleep, she is comforting to sleep next to.

She's pregnant, and it's all too surreal for the older man staring down at the mother to his unborn child; he should know better. No, he knewbetter. He knew what he was doing. He didn't care, and he left it at that. He's old by wasteland standards, but not naïve. A woman who almost killed him carries on his legacy, an heir, which will one day take his place and name, and will make something of this world; be it malicious, or inspirational.

He could never fathom the notion of fathering children; he believed those days were lost to him – something that his father settled on, something he never quite enjoyed thinking about, constantly belonging to a shared genetic copy of yourself, always being needed.

Caesar foretold of redheaded women bearing heathen children; strong and wayward, curious by all accounts; it was meant as a jest – now, the Legate isn't so sure. However, sons can be disciplined and corrected. Daughters – well, there's no room in the Legion Empire for daughters; death is a mercy, after all, and he would do the same for any child that comes out lame or slow or deformed. Any rational man could understand that – even Courier Six could understand that. And, if she didn't, she will have to. How could the weak possibly strive on this Hell-on-Earth?

She'll be allowed to keep their son for a year, before influence could take root; and, once the time came for separation, the Priestesses would take over, taking on the responsibility as notable propaganda for the Legion and act as teachers. Courier Six will lose her child in every respect, in every regard; it was a melancholy subject to dwell upon, but that was the reality to the Legion's insurance to prosperous domains. To the Legate's credit, he will watch over the boy, visit on occasion, and perhaps shed some reassurance to a young mother losing her own, reporting in on updates.

If their child survived the terrains of the Mojave, could endure the hardship of training, the backlash of human company and the war that plagued the grounds, then the Legate supposed that their son would grow into a fine young man; perhaps the boy will don his mother's gray eyes, or her hollow-point grin. The Legate didn't care, as long as the boy could aim and fire.

And, perhaps, after his own son made a name for himself, prove he could not be swayed by womanly benedictions, the Legate would allow his son to meet his mother after all these years. His son would hold the knowledge that women are subhuman, but he'll be damned if his own would terrorize the woman who gave him a chance in this world. Without a doubt, and by the stories she rambled on about her own family, Courier Six found wealth in family. She loathes him, but there's unconditional love in her weathered heart for blood ties.

He wouldn't be less of a man for brutally punishing his own son for disrespecting his mother, the woman who breathed life into him; the woman who endured the hardship of carrying a child through the unforgiving wastes, the woman who risked the possibility of dying during childbirth. The Legate wouldn't stand idle as his own son reminded his mother of her place as a slave, wouldn't dare comment on her lowly status.

Courier Six, however, promised death. His rambling thoughts may be preoccupied on the future, however, he was not blind to the fact that the woman he lays with could possibly be his demise. She may one day carry out her promise, and if she is successful at killing him and running away – then he had no ill feelings towards her. No. He hoped that if she is successful in her elaborate murder then she would raise their son, or daughter, right.

That's all he wished for.

But he had no intentions in dying. Not yet. He guns for the ballad of Death, hoping that it will not be his last on those frontlines.

-x-

Her hands are just as bloody as his; the girl with crownless curl and eyes that could devour the shadows. She is no tourist in the Valley of death and shadows, nor is she naïve to the evils that lurk off the sands. Morning beats in like a drum, dark fading off into radioactive brilliance, skies consumed by blue, the ground covered in red.

"War is cruelty," the Legate had said to her once, "There is no use trying to reform it. The crueler it is, the sooner it will be over." She's heard that quote before, but couldn't quite pinpoint the origin. Though, she shouldn't be surprised by his literacy, a man who lines his walls with books from the old would is bound to be well-read; humorously, she couldn't help thinking that if the Legate was a better man, she figured him a scotch drinker.

Silus' boots hit the dirt, he comes stumbling out of the depths of the decrypted barracks, the door squeaking off the hinges, hitting the foundation in a rush; he smells of infection and rot, and even Six couldn't help but to feel pity for the man. However, that feeling quickly faded and it was replaced with morbid curiosity to how the Legate played in all of this. The man walks the line to death row, listening to the sound of soldiers cheer for his bitter end.

Child soldiers watch in macabre wonder the example that the Legion wanted to show, enforcing lawful cold fear into their young hearts; crucifixion was used to terrorize and dissuade long-surviving Legion enemies from perpetrating particularly heinous crimes against them. They stood around without leadership, waiting on a General who would not show – and will never show.

When sun graces the damned, Six can see the blood, could finally study the battered and mutilated features of the shamed centurion. She noted the appearance of his eyes, empty, caved in like black pits, devoid of any pride that may have still lingered. Truthfully, she cringed at the sight, repulsed by the notion that someone took the time to pluck out both eyes with their fingers. Of course, she's had a hand at torture, but eyes seemed to be off-limits; she rather indulge on the fear that they showed rather the blind mystery to walking forward. But there's no room to condemn a man for such travesty considering that she is just as guilty in her unmerciful ways. Though, she hid her sadistic tendencies behind a thin veil of heroism.

Not all heroes are perfect – that goes without saying for a small town girl like Courier Six.

From the eyes, blood flowed in fresh with dry splotches that stained ashen skin. They broke Silus' jaw, an awkward feat of a hanging jawline, freshly cut from the sides to remove his tongue; a detestable favorite the Legion loved doing to those of treason. The centurion is missing his bottom teeth, and Six can't help to think about the Legate's bruised knuckle from last night; he washed the blood off, but the damage was done.

"S-sometimes they'll break the legs of profligates. It is the only mercy that legionaries are allowed to show," Vic mentions, softly. It wasn't just breaking legs, Six knew, she's studied the bodies of the crucified on her own time, but they shattered the bone; Six found those who had their legs shattered hastened their death up on the cross. Cardiac rupture, heart failure, asphyxia, shock inducing death: none could escape the bruising grasp of Caesar – certainly not those strung up on the cross. Perhaps she could call it mercy on the Legion's half, for death can be a mercy for those who seek it.

Vic held his own next to Six, unaware of the gruesome execution that she enforced on her own last night; the boy pretended to hold stability, but Six knew he held fear too close to the bleeding heart. Still, her fingers brushed against his, easing tension. It was a dangerous move on her end, talking with a boy in the Legion, but her better nature got the best of her.

"You don't have to be afraid anymore, Vic. I gotcha, kid," Six's words broke the boy's heart, and the two of them stood in that hounding crowd of evil who barked for damnation.

It was an odd lookout, two different sides, two different people, coming together and realizing the world is a fucked up place.

-x-

"What was it like – growin' up in that community? What 'bout your family? Don't suppose you ascended from Hell all on your own, Legate," it was an amiable request – even at the expense of her teasing. Honestly, it caught the Legate off guard; an easier task for the Courier to accomplish. But he paused, holding his razor close to his face, close to the skin, over the basin, averting his attention from the mirror to the woman who sat on the edge of the bed, twiddling away at the threadbare hem of her jacket, waiting for him to turn the lights off and go to bed.

"Even the Devil had a father," the Legate murmured, an attempt at joking, resuming his task of self-care; he ran the blade under the water, tapping it clean on the rim of the basin. It's seemed like forever ago since he thought of his own parents, more apparent with the passing days and the familiarity that his cunning Courier strived to pull out of him. He is to be a father himself with a woman who's denied him, a contradiction to his own parents love and devotion for each other; they loved him with the same forgiving passion, it was the Mormon thing to do, there was no excuse to his outlandish and evil behavior that derived from his own power hungry mind. They died knowing that their only son turned his back on them and their god; he averse such a thought, and no amount of self-guilt could bring them back for him to tell them otherwise.

He wouldn't know what to say to them if they were still alive. A man with few words is only good with a gun.

His parents deserved a better son.

"Vague, Malpais Legate, but not what I'm lookin' for," Six moves from the edge of the bed, coming behind the rationally impaired man. First, she touched his forearm, bringing down the razor he used to shave his face; it was enough of a signal for him to place the blade back in his kit. Second, she smiled the type of smile that only women have been able to master; it fabricated kindness, but trickery and vexation seemed to make up the perfect lining in her features. Lastly, she convinced him enough to turn his back to the small basin, pressing him against the decrypted counter the bowl was placed upon. She touched the straps of his empty holsters, thumbing carelessly over the leather binds. He endured her touch that was far too close to the heart.

"I haven't seen them since the infancy of the Legion. That's all you need to know, Courier," the Legate shewed some sharpness in his reply. His reluctance won Six's fevered interest. He softly grabbed her hand that fiddled with his straps, pulling it away. A bruising motion that hurt him more than her, she oddly stared up at him, keeping that hollow-point grin.

"Thirty years," her small voice expressed shame, an abstract articulation from a woman who hardly cared about anyone but herself, the company of her robot, and the city built on lies and whores. She looked appalled with that knowledge, something akin to remorse that had her looking up at him with sadden wonder. Truthfully, it stung her, as if her own moral culpability was at question in this scenario; and, if that was the case, the Legate was blind to her mental reasoning.

"Yes," the Legate replied, though there was no level of mournfulness in such a confession. He turned his back on her, picking up his shaving kit to put away; he walked from the old basin to the steam trunk at the foot of the bed, thumbing through a combination that clicked, quickly opening and shutting the trunk once he set aside his ritual possession. He had hoped his offhand retort would paint a picture for her – telling her that had no desire opening up to her more than he already has. But his Courier is a relentless woman, and she was upon him in little time, prying at old wounds that had already healed with the waning years.

"Thirty years, though. Are – they still alive," Six pried, returning to the Legate's side, knowing his schedule by heart due to forced conditions of learning and living with the obsessive compulsive man.

"No," the Legate stepped to the side of the bed, fingers working down the fastenings of his shirt; she watched him remove his sleeve garters and hoisters before fully removing his shirt. A diligent practice of folding and placing his items on the steam truck was handled with extra care. Six had a habit of leaving her belongings on the floor, which usually caught the Legate's quiet ire. "My mother's been dead for fifteen years, now. My father followed ten years after. From what I've heard, it was from natural causes. I choose not to dwell on it."

"But what were they like," Six asked with uncertainty – like she couldn't believe a monster like him grew up in loving settings, with people who loved him. "Can't ya tell me their names?"

"Abigail and Samuel," the Legate responded, feeling gracious in his personal information. It's a close comfort, a natural phenomenon that made him feel a little more human in doing so. He knows she only talks to him out of loneliness – that the only person who doesn't ignore her in camp was him; it must be a maddening dilemma to find conversational comfort in the man who sought to end you for so long.

"Those names are familiar."

"They're fairly common names, Aries."

"Well, just Samuel. From your fancy book with the numbers and poems -," Six confessed, absently. She took note of the Legate's bitter expression, sighing with compliance and understanding of such a taboo confession.

"- You've been reading from my books, rummaging through my things," the Legate cut her off as expected, straightening his posture. He's a hard man to make happy, smiling on occasion after she said something or does something to satisfy him; if she stroked his ego long enough, he always fell into a tolerable mood, but it was always so easy to set him off. He was the cold reality of the Wasteland and nothing welcoming like the glowing hope New Vegas offered her.

"Not a lot to do in the tent when ya leave me for a spell," Six replied, defensively, annoyed by his cut dry tone.

"You will not talk 'bout it with anyone, understand? Not a word, Courier. I've been civil with you, but utterance deserves punishment," the Legate gripped her chin, averting her dreading gaze to him. The dangerous sonorous in his tone was all she needed to understand she crossed a certain line. But what did the man expect to leave his belongings out for an intrusive Courier? Should she hold her reluctance for his comfort? That would be like telling a dog to heel at the sight of food; it's hard, but it was possible with conditioning.

"I'm guessin' great Caesar hadn't a clue you're in possession of that fancy book," Six pried, touching the Legate's wrist to push his hand away from her face. Decorum and modesty eluded the pair; they're too comfortable with each other – much to the Courier's charging.

"Keep in mind woman, that a slave lives as long as their master. I'm the only one keeping you alive for my benefit," the Legate allowed Six's defiance to shine, retracting his touch in favor of undressing for the night; she knew he wasn't lying, the day could come that the Legate will tastefully lose his life to an uppity sniper on the front, and she'll be too far from civilization to outfight the legionary soldiers. All she had to offer to this world was her silver-tongue and precise aim, strength missed her by a country mile.

"You're a dirty ol' man, Malpais Legate, no different than the men who occupy stools at a bar," Six barked, crossing her arms over her breast, standing her ground while the Legate unbuckled his trousers and popped the button. "Can you blame me for snoopin'? You've taken everything from me and expect me to live with that." The conversation she originally purposed was supposed to be a lighthearted one, hoping to sway the Legate in a good mood; that was quickly shot out of the waters with her snide remarks and slurring speech.

"You'll continue to do so, Courier. Now get into bed," a calmer demand came from the man, sliding his trousers down his legs and retiring them with the rest of his belongings.

"No. Not 'til you hear me out," she stood her groud – even while the Legate sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for her to crawl in by his side.

"You have a lot of nerve to ask me for something – even after calling me a dirty old man. Do you have no shame, Courier? I've already let you kill a man in cold blood."

"I reckoned it wasn't cold if he deserved it, Legate," Six ruefully smiled, "Shame in my position? Naw, it don't have a lot of meanin' to a gal like me."

"You make me wonder about the amount of hearts you've manipulated with your words –and talents," conversation transitioned flawlessly between the two, bickering at one point, making offhanded comments the next. While annoyed, the Legate found that endearing about his Courier. She knows when to change her hand when the odds are against her.

"How many? Sweetheart, not much. I told ya I was never any good winnin' over fellas. New Vegas was somethin' I had to learn fast, adapt to. Benny took my virginity, ya hear? I had to fake it. I can talk, I learned how to talk fast from my daddy, but I ain't a lover. But, ya know, if you run New Vegas, people tend to think you're fast, that you've seduced your way to the top. I guess my situation is a yes and no answer. I used Benny by thinkin' I could kill him in his sleep," softer in approach, there was gravity to her words, "I let my naïve way of thinkin' kick in. Never had a man hold me. It was my first time. I think I was more hurt he left in the mornin' – even if I had no love to give. Funny thing is, you're my second."

"I -," the Legate cleared his throat, reminded how much of a child Courier Six still is; twenty-seven years apart is a huge time gap. It was the brutal honesty he deserved; he tended to forget this tippet constantly with her speech and motives and her ability to evade his execution for so long, but her foolhardy and brash nature to wave a gun neatly concluded the truth for him like plain lettering. What she said about him being a lecherous old man was not far from the truth. His guttural tone softened with the blow of reality, "What do you want, Aries?"

"I want my eyebot, ED-E. Please. Y'all tell me he's still functionin', that my 'bot is still kickin', but I've yet to see proof. He was the only thing that held meanin' to me out on those lonesome wastes. I swear he wouldn't cause any trouble if I tell him not to. I have no one in that tent when you leave me. That's why I go through your things," and like a wounded child placed under the scrutiny of their parent's berating, Six told the Legate of her true motive to pulling conversation from him; she wanted to win his favor, and was willing to do virtually everything and anything to get it – even if it was the expense of her own body. She added in a soft voice, "I can give you somethin' for him. Anything. I just want my ED-E back."

"You're asking a lot out of me. Technology has no purpose in rank. Technology is what destroyed this world. What makes you think I'll turn on my own ideology for sex that I can just take from you," the Legate challenged her with a subtle frown.

"But he holds purpose to me, Joshua. You know, I don't think it's 'bout sex with you. I reckon you're lonely. You're a lonely ol' man who's probably just realizin' it. You've been lookin' mighty pleased the day I started talkin' and openin' my legs to you without a fuss," the hitch in the Legate's voice foretold of the man underneath his harden guise, surprised to have her fall on her knees in front of him, close to the bed, shelving herself comfortably between his thighs. "You were harpin' away last night 'bout wantin' me to care for you. Maybe – I'll be a whole lot kinder if ya listened to me."

"You're out of line," the Legate bit off, but he didn't deny the feathered touch of having her fingers rest on the top of his thighs.

She ignores him, of course. She reaches up, leaning forward on her knees, garnishing his shoulder with a forceful hand that pulls him forward and looming over her space. She kisses him and it's almost painful, bruising and forceful, teeth clicking together with collision. He attempts to pull away to scold her, but her arm hooks around his neck, keeping him poised and connected. Her tongue pushed between the labored line of his lips, drawling out an audible gasp from the Legate; abashed, though mostly crossed, the Legate hummed against her mouth.

With her other hand she palmed him through his underclothes; his teeth clenched with the pressure, drawling out an involuntary groan from him that he made no attempt at suppressing. Her fingers trace a line over him, outlining his erection through the cloth, holding him in an unforgivable vise.

It was a dirty trick to siren him into submission, and when she allowed him to pull back, she followed.

"You don't have to look at me like that, Darlin'," she mirrored his wording; a calling-card to their first week together, a malicious homage after the day he forced himself upon her, using his height to advance her. While in her demeaning position, she held control, she was the one who gripped his cock painfully tight through the rough material, stroking him dryly with it.

She loses the bases of tender when her fingers hooked in his waistband, pulling the boxers low enough to free him. Honestly, it was a relief, and the man was obsessively grateful by the quick maneuver. Relief is a damning thing once her fingers circled around his base, and she leans forward on her knees to swipe her tongue down his shaft, tasting him; she looks back up at him for his unneeded approval. Though, he knew it was inexperience on her end; she was always so sloppy when he made her take him in her mouth – teeth always brushed over the tip, he couldn't angle right – but he wondered if it was her elaborate plan at spiting him, pretending to be ignorant on self-centered pleasure.

Courier Six is a damning woman, a sad woman to the finest detail – no amount of wealth could buy her happiness, no amount of rain could drown her shattered pride. She's defined by the fall of horizons and mighty, bleak empires. She tells him that she feels no shame, that she's immune to the effects. The Legate begs to differ, certainly how she cuts conversation to subtle want, and then rubs it in his face that he's the lonely one.

He's never denied her accusation, but he believes that she is also a victim to her own callout. And, just like the radio, she pays him with fabricated feelings and soft lips.

"Dammit," the Legate choked, unprepared; a thrilling first.

Her forearms rests upon his thighs, the sudden rush of her warm breath against his swollen flesh muddled his sadistic mind, easing him to relax. He watched as she licked her lips to wet them. Watched her ego fall in a single drop. Watched as her lips wrapped around the tip, enveloping him in slick warmth; her fingers tighten around his cock, and he's damn enraptured by the sight of her swallowing down every inch of him.

Obscenely, he tells himself this is how he wants to die, buried deep within her mouth, practically touching the back of her throat. Truth be told, she looked good with his cock in her mouth, serving him rather than running her mouth.

She started slowly on him, her tongue flattened under his shaft, sliding him out of her mouth, dragging velvet across warmth. And try as the Legate might, he couldn't keep his hands to his side, desperately tangling his fingers in her red hair, jerking her gaze up – halfway off him, still pleasant with her visual. She's slicken him enough in one sweep of her mouth, rolling her fingers up and down the base in a corkscrew motion with her mouth adding pressure to the tip.

He swallowed hard when her palm tightened around his base, his hand working her back down on him again. The slick, wet sounds and the hum in the back of her throat just about puts him on edge, but he concentrates on the angle, coaxing her to take as much as she could. Lucky for him, she's a decent lover, almost taking him fully till she gagged on him. He ignored the warning, adding weight to the back of her skull until she was able to take him wholly.

In one sweep, he allowed her to pull back to cough; he tugs on her hair, drawling up her attention so he could lean over her and kiss her; it was a devouring gesture that barely gave her room to breathe. She kisses him back, stroking him in his moment of weakness.

When he whispers his hotly vulgarities and praise against her mouth, she smiles, running her tongue across his bottom lip until he couldn't take it anymore and has to push her head back down in his lap.

The tight undulating suction of her mouth spurs him on with rhythm, bobbing her head over him, each dip remained deep and teasing. Damning, gray eyes watch him, continued to watch him when the time came and he uncharacteristically sobbed on release.

And she swallowed everything he had to offer.

In the awkward haze of pinning together his thoughts, he lightly agreed that he'll find a way to bring her closer to the robotic abomination.


	9. Vegas Lights and Vices

Chapter 9: Vegas Lights and Vices

 _"It's just you and me, baby girl. Just you and me,_ " a young father holds his daughter close to his chest, smothering her, reminding her that she'll never go unloved in this godforsaken world; innocence is a damning thing; as the man stood there with his daughter in his arms – before a lonely and deep grave – it was his little girl who touched his worn face, thumbing over pale souvenir scars. She wiped away the sting of fresh tears that marred ashen skin, a human characteristic that even lowly Raiders could possess. She smiled at him, unaware to the gravity of the situation, far too young to recognize that she's lost her mother; maturity is deep-rooted in this four year old little girl. She presses her brow to his, garnishing his heavily tattooed neck with small hands and whispering kindness. A gentle childlike kiss adorns the hollow of his face.

The man bitterly chuckled, patiently running a warm gloved hand up his daughter's spine; he's too evil and malicious to have such a beautiful treasure, a greedy man who found his wealth in his sweet girl's smile and fumbling words. But if he had to run a merry band of hounds, stealing and killing to make sure his daughter never understood want –then he'll continue to strive with his wicked ways, paving his way with the blood of the innocent, stalking the interstates, breathing the very air of corruption.

"Daddy, don't cry." The little girl consoled. With age comes wisdom, because he wants to believe his little girl when she says it's going to be shotgun in his other hand hung loosely from his trembling fingers; he's a leader, he has no room for weakness, but he couldn't help mourning the fact that his beautiful child will grow up without an equally beautiful mother to guide her; his late wife, Jamie Leigh, had so much to teach, too.

You run with Raiders, you're bound to die by Raiders. Jericho, the leader before him, his own father, found that out the hard way, too.

Soda Pop, a man of many trades: hitman, raider, and dabbler in shipping slaves, is finally tasting karma for what it's worth; and it's bitter. It's a bitter and dragged out processes, and he deserved everything wrong in his life.

He lost his wife.

He's lost his Raider team, too.

A lot happens over the years, his daughter becomes older, wiser and she's so full of life that it breaks his weathered, crooked heart. But even with the end of the world, the numbing apocalypse, and the loss of his wife – Soda Pop's killed, razed caravans down to ash. He takes and he takes, running profit off people's tragedy – passing fucking stories over all the wrong he's done – all those families that he's sold to Legion slaving parties in his youth – he needed to die. He wanted to die. But Aries needed him. He's all that she's got in this nefarious world.

Children, after all, only grow up to break your heart.

He's an old ghoul. He's lost his luster, he's lost his humanity. And, now – he prays he hasn't lost his only daughter.

Soda Pop stands on his front porch; an old shack nestled sweetly off the boarder of Genoa. The paint's peeling off, now. The floorboards creak with age, eroded nails keep it sturdy. He's biting off on a cigarette, clenched between his dirty teeth. A veil of velvet smoke distorts his outlook, but he waits for the morning courier – still waiting on a letter that's six months late.

And he'll continue to wait till the day she shows up on his front porch step – still very much alive.

-x-

Mellifluous in tone does the gunslinger Courier sing for him, but only when he could tune her right; he finds utter limerence in her waking hour, strong and smooth and abnormally breathtaking. He finds death in her form, epiphany in her sturdy structure. Delicate fingers trace over his wrist, curling in, but she does not pull them away. No. She holds the hand at her throat with care, tempting fate with hushed words.

Morning dawns upon the last day in Nelson; the Legate served his purpose, he's executed his centurion, and quite honestly he was ready to move on with Six. He does not doubt her willpower, and he should be cautious of her threatening tendencies, but he'll feel more secure knowing that he's put her out of harm's way. She's so much more than what he's bargained for; Death is no illusion, the Powder Gangers had a good reason for screaming: "Here comes the Grim fuckin' Reaper!"

The Legate's fingers curl in on the Courier's inner thigh, coaxing her to hook her leg over his. When she complied, the hand on her thigh migrated up, gracing the flesh at her hip, rolling rough and calloused fingertips over subtle skin. Six, in turn, frowned against her pillow, keeping her gaze turned away, but leaving no resistances in her motion and the allowance to bend on will; the sickness plagued her, but she swallowed it down, taking shallow breaths to combat the dull ache in her throat; she's sweating, blaming it all on hormones, the closeness of another warmed body upon her, and the burning Mojave weather.

She can feel him already hard and thick against her lower back, keeping constant pressure. She can hear the slowness in his breath, shallow and calm, mulling over time he had none to spare. Still, his fingers travel, moving and curling back down her thigh and then flattening over her hip, pulling her closer. Six sighed, a mixture of annoyance and satisfaction, waiting on unhurried movements; she couldn't decide if she wanted to be touched, or not.

"Careful, ol' man," Six cringed, enduring the strain and the overlap of his heavy arm over her hip, the fingers that inched downward. She tensed, finding no salvation in the drawl of his hand, nor the first plunge of his middle finger sinking to the joint. And, of course, she couldn't fight the sob in her words – always bleeding and confident and sweetly soft – even while her voice contradicts her fast-talking words. She spins no love songs for him, gripping his wrist to slow his jagged pace to be inside her. "I'm – not feelin' good. Mornin's are the hardest."

"I'll be quick. I'll be -," the Legate's voice falters, though it was never loud to begin with. His other hand curls under her, trailing over her ribs, cupping her breast with a warmed hand. His touch is rough, weathered with years and war and carrying gospel down the interstates of Arizona. He adds a second finger, stressing against her walls, slickened with forced stimulation, stretched and accepting. The same fingers that flipped through the pages of his Lord's book. The same fingers that use to pull back the trigger of his gun and take aim at her. "You're so warm, Aries."

He mumbles against her shoulder, closing his eyes and stilling, burning her with a single kiss – dragging the tip of his tongue up the elegant curve of her throat, reaching the nape of her neck, placing a gentle bite. His fingers curl in on her, pressing deep and heavy, tempting her to grind against his hand.

She turns her head with that motion, looking over her shoulder with a troubled gaze, half-lidded when the Legate curled in on her to press his lips against hers, tasting her, exchanging conversation with the absences of words and strung together sentences. Her sigh shakes with the parting of her mouth, accepting the slide of his gentle tongue rolling over hers, closing her lips on him – sucking on the taste of copper, retreating on a gentle bite. The next kiss is deeper and his fingers become a little more persistent, listening to the escaped words she mumbled against his flesh, begging him to invade her.

She's wet around his fingers, groaning when he slips from her. He replaces them with something more sustainable, keeping her seated on his lap in this laying position. He parts her and she's tight around him, already constricting and narrow, pinpointing sudden death. She sighs on the first shove, then cries out on the second, hooking her arm behind his neck, leveraging to push back.

His fingers touched the underside of her thigh, tightening his grasp, he lifts her leg up from his – widening her stance to take him fully, hilting himself. He's slow in his giving, thrusting up into her welcoming warmth, vulgar in every colored regard. And she feels full, biting down on the tip of her tongue, lulling her head forward – concentrating on anything other than her nausea. She moans for him, soft and patient, loud enough to stir him on.

He slams into her from this position, keeping her legs wide and exposed, driving into her with hurried motions. And – it hurts, it hurts a lot with his angle, and she whimpers on such force, grinding down on her teeth. But it felt good, a burning ache that coiled in her stomach, making her forget to breathe.

It's damn painful when he comes; she holds him in a vice, abused muscles working him over in a matter of minutes – an embarrassing feat from an older man with some experience under his belt. If the Courier was dissatisfied, she didn't say anything about his performance. No. She stroked his ego, tilting her head to kiss him again, panting with the experience; they're a contrast in personality – she's too lively, and he's bitter.

She smiles. Oh, God, she smiles against his flesh as he slowly slid from her heat, slick with his come.

-x-

"Whoa, Ladies and Gentlemen. Esteemed members of cultured society. Gomorrah, from sweetheart New Vegas, is proud to present – for your witnessed destination – a cunnin' array of exotic thrill seekers, ready to break ya hearts with a wink of an eye," before servitude, Courier Six knew how to have fun in the oddest of ways. When she wasn't breaking even with Swank at the Tops, she was hounding Cachino on his deliverance; he told her that men and women will still come around for the prostitutes and the drugs. That they didn't need to showcase sexuality through entertainment. Six disagreed, where's the fun in sex without the debauchery, the opening number? They weren't dead.

Six use to fill in for Cachino in numbers, announcing house favorites on the dime. People came in for the sex, of course, but Courier Six is famous – if she's announcing the best, she ought to know the best; perhaps, it was how she talked that got the patron's attention: a real gentle voice, soft and squeaky, accented comically from some backwater, broken farm; with oddity and high-roller pride, Six knew how to work the vocals – catcalling the wanting. She's damn small, but built like a house – ready to tear down any structures that threaten to outshine her in her own city; she knew how to care for her own, she knew how to get the caps flowing – and that's all that mattered in the eyes of men apart of the all-boys club known as New Vegas.

Courier Six stood up on that stage and sung to the choir, siren-calling every fool who lined their pockets with caps and strutted in on spectator shoes. The younger prostitutes were all in love with her, while the older prostitutes adored her in a family sense.

She must be something special if she earned the obsessive admiration of the Legion's Malpais Legate.

However, admiration can be a costly phenomenon.

One of the hookers, a stage girl named Billy, proposed the plight to legionary soldiers: chemical warfare. Billy's a tribal woman, she knows the land and the plants - whatever scarce vegetation grew on the Mojave. She possibly knew the land better than Six, and her grandmother was a woman of the earth. It was a simple enough matter, something that Six quickly took advantage of and jumped to. And, in tow, Six and her eyebot followed the hooker out in the middle of nowhere – searching for this tribe; a unique take on a drinking story, something that could have been passed around a bonfire and told for a generation, or two.

Billy's an odd woman, talked fast, talked loud, and could eat anyone out of house and home; she drank more than Six at the time, and that was saying something. But she was nice, a real swinging gal who knew how to raise a little hell when the need arose. Honestly, it made Six question the nature of Billy's employment with Gomorrah; the aim she had could rake in the caps with commercial mercenary bands.

The trip is a tiring experience, hitting the trails by dawn, traveling 'til dusk. And, before Six could call out Billy for giving her faulty directions, Six sees the bonfires off in the distances – glittering and otherworldly, enraptured to the drawl of fingers running over strings and ghostly hymns that echoed and plagued the desert; they're a lovely race, smothered in white fabrics, blowing dark clouds of sage that leaves Six awestruck; an expression she hid well under the weight of her mask.

Sirens.

Desert Sirens are real; they're beautiful yet dangerous, double-dealing women who inhabited the desert. They're nomadic, parading the Mojave with wagons and tall tents – haunting the interstates, avoiding radiation storms from the North, luring men and women into their encampment and then drugging them with bitter drink and ghostly smoke. They promised sex, they promised comfort and companionship - devouring the flesh of their victims come morn, long fingers plucking away at bones and muscles, mouths ringed red with consumption. Chemical warfare was their ally.

They're cannibals, and Six felt betrayed. Six quickly snapped her gaze to Billy who looked humbled to be among her people, but she dropped her expression the moment she felt eyes upon her.

"Miss Six, it ain't what it looks like. I'd never betray you. Never," Billy rambled, a darling feat that took some tension off between the two. "I promised you drugs. I said I wanted to help you combat the Legion – this is the only way I know how to help you. My people – they won't hurt you. You've done so much for all of us – let the Sirens help you."

Billy kept true to her word; she's a damn cannibal, but it seems that even cannibals held morals. They also held deep grudges; they hated the Legion with the same fervid emotion that Six held. They've raped and enslaved and butchered their numbers – it was only a matter of time before the tables turned on them – and they were prey.

In fact, bones and Legion armor decorated their encampment, past victims who fell for seduction and righteous murder; the bones protruded from ill-dug graves, flesh dripping off digits. The sage that burned masked the aroma of decay, making it tolerable to approach the camp grounds.

The Sirens taught Six the properties of poison; learning from cannibals had its benefits, they studied their prey – tracked and stalked them. They guessed body weight, noting that gender also had a factor in how potent to make the brew. They taught her how to quickly kill, as well as the fundamentals of merely putting their object of affection to sleep.

And that's what Six was doing now – staring down at the common Datura root; it's a white flower bedded down in green. The seeds are what Six desired the most; seeds that were known to be more lethal than the whole plant itself. She picked them, and like anything she could put to use, she stuffed them down in her pockets; they would be of some use to her tonight – when the Legate asked her to retrieve warm chicory from the mess tent.

A man who runs a military shouldn't be foolish enough to trust the hands of a woman that he's spite.

But he did.

And he will ultimately pay. And, thinking back on it, seduction and poison seemed like a wonderful mix.

"Aries," a voice startles her, and she quickly straightens her posture – dropping the roots. With careful observation, she turned her head to find Vic standing close and curious, faintly smiling. This gave Six courage to pick up the rest of her findings, shoving them down in her pockets.

She doesn't say anything at first, playing off her demeanor with patience and amusement; the toe of her boot strikes the ground once, holding onto a hollow-point grin.

"Well, look who came to visit: my favorite solider," Six liked the widening smile on the boy's face, she found it beautiful – something that should be cherished. The boy disregarded her odd behavior at picking plants, ignored it even – like he somehow knew her intentions. "What's the pleasure, Sweetheart?"

"I – I wanted to tell you thank you. For everything," the boy pauses, slowly shaking his head, keeping that boyish grin. He held something in fabric, keeping it present between the two. Six tilted her head, shrugging the matter off. "General Romulus faced execution for contraband items found in his study. My new General, General Law, is tough, but I think – I think he means well." Between the two, they both knew that was a lie, but and no one was willing to challenge the Legate on the absurdity of the execution.

"That so," Six asked with fabricated suspicion, "That's life for ya, baby boy. Ya marchin' to a tune, only to have it fall flat."

"Yea -," Vic chuckled, toying with the item in his hands. "That's why I wanted to see you. I know you're leaving tomorrow. And I wanted to repay you." He held out his gift to her, wrapped in ratty fabric, leaving Six to accept it with caution.

When she removed the fabric and peered down, her gaze shot back up with fear. It was a gun. A damn pistol.

"It was something my father gave me," Vic explained, "It has no meaning to me. But – you, I think you'll find use to it one day, Aries. Maybe one day we'll meet again."

And, like all things put to good use, she pockets the gun in her jacket - hoping to hide it when the time comes.

-x-

She asked for her little 'bot; a reasonable possession to inquire after, she did spend a good three years traveling with it. The Legate was not fond of it – nicked him well on more than one occasion. Laser burns festered, but they were quick to bandage. It played music, and for a woman who prided herself on deception and undercover operations through the Mojave – this little 'bot would be her folly; it was damn suicide.

A gentle psychosis, the Legate diagnosed. Though, honestly, his ration side wasn't all intact; he passed no judgement, marking it off that his humble Courier adored the attention – pushing in motion to only spite him. And this 'bot matched her personality. No, it made Courier Six's little existence endearing. She put all her pure-hearted faith in machinery, and that was mediocre. Cogs and sprockets held no comparison to blood and bone. But it was always by her side, she was always talking to it – even while she ruled the Strip and had advisors to confine in, but that 'bot was her top priority; like a damn ornament that complimented her tyrant rule.

Six placed a cup of warm chicory in front of the Legate, beside his ledgers and upholstered pistol and discarded bulletproof vest. They passed short-lived glances, too quick to decipher, but lingered long enough for her to pass him an idle smile that barely held any definition. She doesn't say anything, backing away and tending to her own meaningless tasks before she decided to retire for the night – picking up a novel that detailed a court case's involvement in racial tensions through the eyes of a child; it was something from the old world, it was something the Legate could give to his Courier while she combated her lonely boredom in his absence. As long as she kept the book out of sight and out of the mind to those who may care, he didn't mind what she read – as long as it wasn't something that personally belonged to him.

Like his family bible.

That thought alone strayed him back to the business of her 'bot. The damn thing has been under lock and key in an old lockbox since Courier Six's capture. The gunshot to the paneling has rendered the machine immobile; the propulsions shuddered on lift – barely able to lift its spiracle body off the ground.

The Legate took a sip of his bitter tonic, frowning on that note. The more that he thought about the machine, the more it urged him to drink from his warm cup.

The room he shared with Six is quiet, but he heard the springs of the bed creak out with age – signaling that she occupied her spot; always to the left side of the bed, closes to the exit. The sound of her fingers thumbing over yellow and worn paper was a white noise, filling his lonesome void with a sign of life. His admiration for the girl is heavily rooted in fixation and subtle fear; though, he's never been known to shy away from fires.

Still, the 'bot -.

The eyebot is operational in a sense; technically, the Legate wasn't lying to the Courier when he said that it was still functional. Granted, the antennas are bent and its paneling had an opening which sparked and glittered dully. Static pours from the eyebot's speakers, clicks and hums and beeps grated on his nerves. The shot proved fruitless – not much to expect from those who prided mechanical life over human existence. However, the shot blew open a storage compartment.

Anyone reaching into the 'bot would cause it to dial a shrill note – buzzing and static pinched on a higher frequency; it left the recruits who pried through Six's belongings irritated, enough so for one of them to grab the 'bot by the body and slam it back down on the table. That quieted the machine enough, harmonized on subtle clicks – like it could comprehend remorse.

When the recruits reported their findings to the Legate, he was peeved to learn that it wasn't in possession of the Platinum Chip; Courier Six is a wise woman for playing dumb, mentioning that she had lost it the night of capture – that the damn chip fell from her person the moment of siege, shifting through timeless sands; his men scouted the area with no signs of solid proof to owning New Vegas.

They brought him back a black and white still photo of a cheery couple and a salt-water pearl bracelet stained with age.

Thumbing over the photo, the Legate guessed the couple to be his Courier's parents; resemblances more than striking with the woman in the photo. It's a youthful shot. The pearl bracelet must have been an old family heirloom.

The Legate hasn't said anything to her about the items; he's kept quiet over his findings, storing the two in his lockbox – saving it as a bargaining token when the need arose.

The Legate felt oddly nauseous, scooting back in his chair and abandoning his work for the night. His Courier, in turn, overlooked the wall of her novel – tilting the book down, resting it upon her stomach. He looked over at her, handling the chicory with care, gulping down the remainder. He placed the empty cup on the desk, calling it a night, ignoring the ledgers and land agreements.

"You look exhausted, ol' man. Feelin' all right," Six's deadpan inquiry arose the Legate's fancy; he stared at her for a long time, swallowing down whatever aliment that's stricken him. She's already stripped from her jacket – sitting only in her loose top; she looked ready to go to sleep.

"You could say that," the Legate bit off, softly. If he was in a better state, he would be worried – but he chalked it off as exhaustion – accepting the fact that his body wasn't as spry as it used to be. He migrated from the desk to the edge of the bed. With the dip of the bed, Six crawled over the bedding – coming behind his sitting position – pressing her chest against his warm back.

"Well, Sweetheart, you're burnin' up," her hands garnished his shoulders and she leaned into him, bracing him.

They loved to cut themselves on each other, taste their own blood by their bitter words alone; each argument, fight, and rejoining. And how ruinous they could be to the other, bound to die on these Mojave sands, bound to stain the sands with their own blood – alone and forgotten, deep within shallow and lonely graves.

But his Courier, she was right, he felt overheated. He was ready to close his eyes and dream away his bleeding life.

He said something that made her laugh; it was out of character for him, a retaliation to her simple comment. It was the damn deliria, and it made him cringe when he had uttered it. "Temptation, Courier. Men have done the impossible for women to notice them. Can you blame me for feeling this way? A beautiful woman shares my bed."

"A-Are you flirtin' with me, ol' man? Christ," Six snorted, unladylike and telling. She pulled back on his shoulders, pressing him into the bed.

"A man can try," the Legate grimaced, sighing when the Courier bestowed mercy on him.

All that he can remember from that night is Six looking down at him, watching him with those vexing eyes, leaning forward to press her lips against his.

She doesn't kill him. Not while the collar was wrapped tight around her throat, he was merely the experiment, testing his tolerance to the dose she administered.

She had a full hand, the cards were in her favor, and the Black Widow will always win.


	10. Said the Lying Courier to the Legate

Chapter 10: Said the Lying Courier to the Legate

She shouldn't be looking through his things.

Six is a confident woman in her understandings with the unknown and culturally diverse. She understands that the Legate was a part of a religious group famous for their trading.

Stranger things come from Utah, which explained her grandmother's upbringing and her hot-blooded spirit; a tribal woman who may have been exposed to people like these missionary groups. Her grandmother was far from religious, but she always unraveled the most obscure tales, claiming that she heard them by the word of strange folk entering her lands with their books bound in leather.

Six may not be bright, but she had common sense. She was smart enough to memorize the Legate's schedule as the days waned on while she was left alone in the tent with her tiny radio, listening to Mr. New Vegas; reports on her whereabouts have been scarce, and with confirmation, those of the Mojave were beginning to suspect that she was truly dead and gone – including Swank who sounded wary by news reports.

It was ominous to hear of one's death play over the radio while being nothing more than a well-hidden prisoner.

When the Legate is around, she acted nice in turn, toning down her displeasure by joining with the Legate – even initiating intimacy to gain his trust; conversing in pillow talk, listening to the tired words roll off the Legate's tongue.

She gingerly reached for his wrist, guiding his reluctant hand over the small swell of her stomach. And, often, that moment is a quiet one; his hand is warm and heavy upon her abdomen, a soft caress. Sometimes she would sit on his lap at the writing desk, listening to the gravel in his voice and him lightly complain over recruit protocols and tribes bombarding trade routes. Or, if she was truly feeling charitable and wanted to catch the Legate in a good mood, she would kneel down in front of his chair and take him in her mouth, swallowing him down by his own needs. With this revelation in change, he would do the same for her – laying her down, learning her body, listening to her winded advice as her fingers tangled in his dark hair.

With time, the Legate slowly began unraveling stories from when he walked the interstates of Arizona with his missionary group in his youth; it was expected for Mormons to leave their homes for two years once they've reached the peak of maturity, forbidden to contact their families during their services. It was a sign of growing up, a sacrifice to spread their Lord's word. And, after their two years of preaching, they're suppose to return home and tell their family of their success.

He chuckled without mirth, recollecting on how his poor mother who cried by the door of their small home the day he left; that was the last he saw of her.

The Legate never did finish out his missionary work.

He was becoming a lot less hesitant at detailing his past with her; he talked freely with her, treating her like a little wife who was more than pleased to hear from her husband after a long day. And, honestly, Six did listen to every word he had for her; it was sooner that she'll humanize him and use his own words against him. That was her ploy in the matter and it will be his folly; the Legate should have given her more credit to utilizing his emotions.

Humorlessly, the Legate did mention that a branch of his former religion practiced polygamy, where men took multiple wives and were infamous for having many children to work the farms; he claimed that his independent denomination were at constant odds with those who followed those core beliefs, they were considered the odd birds; he detailed those who practiced polygamy were eventually excommunicated from the church. Morbidly, Six retaliated by jokingly asking the Legate if he had any other slaves besides her; he reassured her, not that she needed it, that he could only handle one headache at a time.

It came to a point where she'd wake early with him, idly talk with him while he got dressed for the day. She'd see him off by the entrance of the tent and he would promise her that he'll return as soon as he was able; he touched her hand, holding it in his larger grasp, and then he hesitantly let go – as if he was afraid of something.

That made Six cringe and carefully pull away while adorned with a smile.

The moment he left the tent, Six asserted her business through his ledgers, copying the coordinates to secret Legion occupied bases and direct orders, mobilized secrets that could put the NCR at an advantage; if she is to escape, she wanted to bring the Legion down a peg, she wanted them to hurt. She pulled whatever she could write on: napkins and torn papers she hid away, scribbling away at her notes.

She stored pens and pencils, stealing just enough not to rouse suspicion from the Legate, but enough to make by with; she was careful with her supplies and valued them above all else, neatly grouping her findings with the rest of her scavenged goods, such as: Vic's pistol that was still wrapped in cloth, durable wire, and a hunting knife; she places them all in a worn sack that she's stolen from one of the guards. She digs a shallow hole at the end of the tent, closes to her side of the bed, and buries her goods under the rug; the rug neatly hiding away her cache in the churned earth.

She's planned around her biological condition, pregnant by a man who ought to never reproduce; she's not just fending for herself, she's taking two inconsideration. Niceties usually equaled out a bigger payout in rations, and she didn't like the factor that her child could be brainwashed into the family business; her work wasn't honest, but it outranked mindless solider on the morals chart. She hid away rations of preserved snacks and cans of purified water; her child would depend on her for breastfeeding, but she needed to fuel her own body to be forthcoming to her child, to be reliable – if her child survived the cruelty of the Legion and the stress on her body from constantly being pushed to move and travel long distances with the Legate.

Hormones is nothing more than a blight; she's still biting back on morning sickness and it was usually an all-day event. She's unnerved by the weakness in her stride, the constant need at wanting to gorge herself with food – cravings that remained unsated due to Legion rations; pregnancy in a post-apocalyptic world is not for the faint-hearted. Hell, she wondered how her mother was able to run with Raiders while she carried her; her father use to gloat about her mother when she was pregnant with her; he claimed she could still hold her own, never strayed far from her firearm, and moved with zealous speed; though, rest is a luxury in the heart of a Raider career.

Pregnancy is not beautiful, it's heartbreaking. A mournful practice of a mother held under the will of a tyrant; there's no romance, no love that brought forth this creation. It was a product from lust and the need to reap from the spoils of war, a reason to keep her pinned by a natural condition – something that her body responded with. And, the Legate, he seems rather fond to the idea of sharing a creation with her – more fodder to add to his frontlines, more to kindle, a goddamn legacy at the expense of her sanity; he wanted something to take on his name.

She has to continue to remind herself that it isn't the child's fault.

-x-

Tours.

Six never quite understood the reason for the Legate bringing her on his long tours. In fact, she hated the aspect of it: roaming neighboring encampments, making sure that the Legionary soldiers were well-equipped and able, it was idle chatter that Malpais Legate had to fill in for Caesar – after some hushed rumors over frequent headaches and his prorogued residency in the back of his tent; she tried to ask the Legate about it, and he automatically dismissed her, reminding her to mind her place and to stop listening to slave gossip. He blatantly ignored her prying – even pushed her hands away when she attempted to siren her away to an answer.

What is war to man?

Six exasperated that self-made question to herself, idly watching the Legate drill his men into formation; he never had to raise his voice, they followed on demand. They're too young, too feeble minded to think for themselves – they needed guidance like cattle, listening to every ill demand given, awestruck by the pull of power. The picture-perfect definition to indoctrination.

Could she blame them? Power is alluring. To them, their raping and pillaging was that enchanting benefit to losing their humanity, their morals and their culture – their absolute goal to follow a madman who promised them more, believing him to be the God of Mars. Separately, they were weak and bound for self-destruction. Collectively, they forged a dross into a vast, razor-sharp scythe.

They wanted to make her New Vegas into their Rome. A Pax Romana, by definition of Caesar; no one held equal worth as long as their skill remained sharp. They demoralized the NCR, psychology draining their enemy, and devoured the lands with their fires.

"What the Devil give you for your soul, Legate, actin' the way you do," Six buried her hands in her pockets, pacing the uneven sands of the desert, standing by the Legate's side once the recruits fanned out. She smiled, crooked as it was, but satisfying. Together, they watched the retreat of the sun, an idle moment that left no room for unfamiliarity between the two. Together, they watched whatever squadron the Legate brought with him; they worked away at setting up temporary camp; they're off the boarder of Arizona, found in the middle of nowhere, snug in a valley – prowling on a tribe that's been nothing but a thorn in their pride.

The Legate planned on laying siege, the Courier was along for the ride.

"Well, Courier, he taught me to be patient with women like you. And, I guess, an army can go a long way," Six's comment was meant as a jab, to lighten the mood on an otherwise dreary situation; she's a slave, but not dead. She didn't expect Malpais Legate to respond to her crude jest with his own droning comeback. She bit her tongue in front of his recruits, knowing that if she crossed boundaries then the soldiers would expect the Legate to issue out public punishment on her. But behind closed doors it was open season to rib on the other.

"Oh Darlin', for that you gave your everlastin' soul?" Six averted her gaze, sly in retort, weaving conversation. With hate, they sure knew how to get under the other's skin. And, perhaps, in a perfect world, where they met as equals, there could have been a bizarre friendship in the mix with the way they argued and debated; Six would harp away with her backwater charm, and the Legate would be intent to listen to the finest of details in her wordplay.

"Well, I wasn't using it," the Legate regarded her, keeping stance, watching the recruits bed down for camp; they sprung bonfires and pitched tents, setting watch around the encampment.

"I know 'bout deals with the Devil. You're usin' yours all wrong. If my soul weighed a good amount, I'd ask for caps, perhaps some stability," Six fully turned to him, asserting her lawful attention. She keeps that even grin and careful eyes, watching the small amused smile kiss the Legate's mouth; it was subtle, but it was marked down as an accomplishment; the man could frown for a country mile, always perfecting on that permanent scowl. She carefully analyzed to herself that he looked good when he smiled – even if it was small; he looked younger, approachable.

"Stability is not granted by the Devil, Courier. As for caps, I'm not surprised," the Legate hummed. He always looked too stiff, straight-laced, taking his role seriously in the eyes of his men. He kept his arms at his side, close to his holster.

"Well, I'll be a sonofabitch. It wouldn't hurt to ask the Devil himself, right?"

"What are you implying?"

"You tell me, Sweetheart," carefully, Six pulled her hand from her pocket. With subtleness, the back of her fingers brushed over his; his fingers twitched in response, but they did not recoil away, nor did he scold her for the public display; the gesture was innocent enough. He allowed her fingers to linger and graze over the skin of his knuckle. He quietly deemed he liked the Courier's boldness. "I sleep next to him every night."

When Six pulled away, the Legate caught her by the hand; he pulled her closer to stand by his side, leaning forward, mumbling, "I have no stability to give, but you've given me a sense of it. Do what you want with that information, Courier."

"Careful, Malpais Legate," Six mocked, softly. "You might start soundin' like a rational human bein' with what you're sayin'. You're playin' your cards too close to the heart. That's high-risk foldin'. It ain't worth the gamble. I see you also have the gift of gab, you might make a gal blush."

"It's not something I would advise. It is…indulgent. I'm willing to risk it. However, it depends on the cards you're dealing and the game we're playing. Though, given your history, I wouldn't expect you to play by the rules."

"Smart man," Six chuckled over the oddity that the Legate was playing nice with her, coquettish as it is. "It's a game, ol' man. It's always a game. Do you know how to play?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. You could teach me, I'm sure," Six regarded the man, quietly mulling over the Legate's proposition. His fingers tightened around her hand when she didn't answer him right away, and from the recruits' angle it looked as if he was berating her; no one said anything, of course. A whisper wasn't worth forfeiting your life. "A wise man is always willing to learn from those who are an anomaly. Better to learn a lesson from the Courier who almost hobbled me."

She knew what he eluded to.

-x-

She'll die with the scandal of a whore.

But this is the game he wanted her to teach him.

The cot creaks with age, worn and weathered, tarnished with travel, braced with the weight of two; the sound is repetitive and absolute: steel grinding together, fabric stressed and pulled, a half-hearted respire pressed against heated skin. That was the winsome, whimsical quality to having her ride him; she's sloppy in trying to keep up. She has him painfully bordering to spill into her, but she's not moving fast enough to finish him off. She's tight and slick around him, finding that hurried rhythm. He enjoyed watching her, enraptured by her exhaustion and the heave of her bare breast, charmed by her zealous stride to rouse reaction out of him. She's use to his impersonal façade, finding his approval in how hard he gripped at her waist.

Her eyes are half-lidded and hazy, expressing a half-broken sob. She presses her palms flat on his shoulders, leveraging herself up and sinking back down, bearing her weight on her knees; his hands touched her waist, guiding her pace, setting her up to speed. He slides his hands up to cup the underside of her breast while her thighs clamped down on his hips; he then maps them back down her body, treading familiar grounds, curving and gripping the backs of her thighs with worked and rough fingers.

She takes him to the hilt, stilling for a moment, bending her elbows to lean down, impatiently pressing her mouth against his in a hurried collision; her teeth clicked against his and her eyes closed on impact – concentrating on this arc of touch, mewling between breaks. Her tongue slid across his and she could taste the copper from her soft bite on his bottom lip, slowly pulling away. She's rough in her handling. The hands on his shoulders soon garnished the underside of his jaw, curling and lulling, tilting her head to the side to press her mouth against the hollow of his throat, biting sensitive flesh that left him tensing, and then soothing the mark with a hushed kiss, or the slide of her tongue, mumbling encouraging, and bleeding words across his marred flesh.

Her hips roll over him, moving in small circles, taking him in a grinding motion that halts his breathing for but a moment, lifting her hips and then slamming back down on him; she's too good at pinpointing what he likes, finding it ungraceful and savory and cutthroat. He loves listening to her choke on her bruising words, repetitive and praising to a Lord she has no knowledge of, fingers that fell stock-still and body shuttering over him. She played him a different type of gospel, the sort he wouldn't want to abandon; her walls constrict around his cock, halting her movements in a haunting display. And, for that, he could never spin enough allegories for his adoration towards her.

She finds her finish before him. And, for once, he's rather pleased by the outcome; it felt good to give rather than to take.

"Oh, ol' man. Joshua," she whispers against his mouth when she came around, heavy in deliria and satisfaction. A sexual repertoire hushed in a low, sultry voice that built tension and left him feeling vulnerable. One of her hands comes back down to grip his shoulder while the other lifted to thread her fingers through his dark hair; gentle and weaving, lightly scratching her nails into his scalp. The Legate is put through his own test to keep motionless while buried deep within her wet warmth, still thick and hard and unsated.

His hips spiked up with her next heated kiss, the type of kiss that could kill a man; he's blinded by her kindness and the veil of her red hair that fell on either side. He's too eager at wanting to reciprocate, pressing his troubled brow against hers.

He understands why the Mojave backed her revolution. He understand why those who fall for her childlike nature barely minded the tragedy behind it, given her young age and wayward passion. She's a performer, gunslinger, and a professional rhetoric weaver; the lies she could feed him, the ones that pertained to love and emotion, he could live off those for days – even with the knowledge that she'll one day dig her blade into his back.

It didn't feel like she just fucked him when she slowly pulled back, it felt different than the usual, fulfilling and absolute. She hovers her curious gaze over his; her soft gray meeting sea-fairing eyes, blinking and unwavering. She smiled down at him and even chuckled, he pulled a hint of a rare one himself in the dim lighting of the tent, ignoring the cacophony of marching boots outside his personal tent. He coaxes her back down for another kiss with that repose expression, a bruising blow to his pride; it was gentle and slow, too intimate to be shared between enemies. He hates to wonder if this is what his father felt every time he looked at his mother. If this is what his father talked about when he said that there is no greater love than the one you find in God and your wife.

He proposes for another position, and the Courier has no problem complying with his wishes. She lifts her hips and pulls away and the Legate braces her waist to maneuver her on her back, turning her under his weight. His knees press into the single cot, pulling up on her thighs to slide over his, straightening his posture before he plunged back into her warmth; she stops him by reaching down and grasping him by the shaft, encircling him with playful fingers, stroking him while he was still slick with her arousal.

His teeth clenched by her bawdy movements, relaxing and allowing her to pump him at an even pace, rolling her thumb over the head of him, tightening her fingers around him; he still had a view of her spread out before him, open and wide, and that made for an interesting visual stimulate while she pleased him selfishly between her thighs. He's too sensitive from already being exposed by her velvet walls. Regrettably, he has to pull her hand away.

She tilts her head back when he reenters her, successful on the first stroke, aching by the second. She's the blinded definition to New Vegas extravagance; a Raider's daughter who found wealth in culture and the two bullets in her skull. Truthfully, he can't stop thinking about her days as the runner of the Strip – wearing those garter belts he thought about snapping under her notorious black dress, kissing away the blood-red lipstick that stained her lips, enjoying the texture of her stockings brush over his hips when he thrusted into her. She was that oddity, something to be romanticized and treasured.

They've never done this before; it made them feel vulnerable and normal. The Legate threaded his fingers through hers, pinning her hand down to the pillow by her head while his other lingered down her hip, curling his fingers in her flesh – keeping her warm and protected. She didn't mind the extra weight, and found him to be mindful when he did overlap her; he probably kept her pregnancy in mind in doing so.

She sighed in gracious defeat, wrapping her legs around his waist, pinning the heel of her foot into the lower dip of his back, coaxing him along on heavy strides – keeping exposed and welcoming. It hurts in the best of ways, listening to him labor away on top of her, acknowledging the ache within her. The simplicity of being joined with anyone.

It doesn't take long for him to spill into her and for them to pull back and realize what they've done. What they've felt. It demoralized the purpose; they're not sound individuals deserving of this, or the life they've created between this. The Legate reminds himself of the deed by disconnecting with her and listening to the muffled groan that escaped her, warm and sopping; some of his come leaking out of her and onto the sheets.

Six is a lonely sort who snapped with confinement. And, the Legate, he's the root of all evil.

"Malpais Legate," she sings to him in that tired, soft voice. Her legs remain open, too exhausted to outright move. Subconsciously, her hands rest over her abdomen, catching her breath and the flooded reality. The Legate moves to the edge of the cot, running his fingers through his bedridden hair, contemplating on the event that just unfolded.

"Joshua," she says his name again, sitting up and tucking her legs under her. He hummed in response, dropping his hand to his knee, shouldering her weight when she moved on her knees and leaned into him. She's playing him the fool; she knows it, he knows it, but he doesn't comment on it – not while she curled in on him – touching the side of his stressed jawline, turning his gaze down on her; he holds his frown, and Six can't help but to grin again, siren-calling her way.

She kisses him, deception was her game, playing nice was just the charm of New Vegas living. She had to fake her expression to get what she want; and, certainly, she faked her way into manipulating the Legate of the Legion. She knew what a face of doubt looks like and the Legate was painted with it – it curved his hard features, softened the blow in his gaze; instead of robbing from her like he's done in the previous months, he's waited on her to crawl on top of him – merely suggesting on occasion to be intimate.

One day, the Mojave will be hers.


	11. Old Ghoul Blues

Chapter 11: Old Ghoul Blues

Soda Pop can pinpoint the moment his heart broke.

He's twenty-five, still running under his father's authority, still pushing miles and packs of rabid humans to the point of insanity. He never understood the principles of hopeless love. After all, he was far too young to mentally die, far too young to understand the concept of heartbreak and all the romantic poetry behind it; his own parents' love was an odd one – given that his mother was a bitter tribal who almost killed his father, and his father was a cheap old man still giving his woman a hard time, but they complimented each other – as if they belonged together in this fucked up world, as if they knew that together they could face this godforsaken land.

Soda Pop is a meddling sort, a decent man underneath his Raider physique, grime and paled scars. He has his mother's blue eyes, red hair, and tribal-souvenir tattoos that heavily marred his skin. He has his father's staring hollow-point grin set into place, his unlucky number thirteen engraved upon his trigger finger, and his boisterous personality that could qualify him reckless.

For a Raider in his prime, Soda Pop's charming; silver-tongued and telling, helpful when it came to luring pretty and easy girls into his bed, scoring drink by the pint, always having a story to weave. He's nimble, a quick shot with a smart mouth, taking anything that wasn't nailed down to the floorboards, breaking hearts like a pastime, stringing bodies up for fun. He blows his smoke, biting off on his Lucky Strikes – illusions of niceties hidden lovingly behind a thick veil of velvet smoke, a pocket knife gearing to stab someone in the back.

He could have gone his entire life completely selfish and empty, but fate had a different means to fuck him over – fate gave him a chance at loving, and it was a hurtful one, too.

He met his late wife, Jamie Leigh, by the gates of her father's rundown farm; she had a dirt-smeared grin, arms laden with hay for the brahmin. The cigarette clenched between his teeth almost dropped, he's awestruck by the plainness of this girl; a simple beauty that came naturally, far too gentle to be associating with some killer with a parched heart. Like a blooming flower on a dying cactus. And, when she spoke, it was soft, too innocent and meek – a far cry from the typical women he bedded.

He had to know her.

He had to speak to her.

And she wasn't afraid of him.

"Never seen you around, stranger. I would know. I happen to know everyone who breaks bread on my daddy's property, and you don't look like any tradesmen I know," with meekness, there's confidence, and he's not the most friendly looking type to start conversation with, but she never judged him – he was unique to her dull backwater settings. He was completely out of her league.

But, damn, did Soda Pop smile hard when she looked up at him with those wide gray eyes.

"That so? I'm new in town, ya dig? I've been travelin' for a good bit now. Thought I'd lay down my roots here for a spell," Those were the words he spun to her, playing his heart out to her in his typical drawl. "Considerin' that I'm new, do you mind showin' me around, little lady?"

It wasn't romantic. He ended up fucking her that night in her father's tool shed to the melancholy tune of I can't Help Falling in Love with You softly filter from the radio speakers outside; the sex wasn't mind blowing, it was innocent and soft – inexperience hands clawed across his shoulders and down his back. But she held him, kissed him, ran her velvet tongue up his throat, made him feel like he was worth a damn in these barren wastes. She never shied away from his scars, didn't hesitate to trace old brands of blue-ink tattoos, and even turned over his knuckle to kiss the number thirteen on his hand.

What those Raiders did to his wife was inhuman. He wonders if it would have been better to have left her on her father's farm – safe away from him and the folly that trailed after him. They tortured her. They plucked her from the waterfront and mutilated her frail body for no damn reason. When he found his wife, she was curled up on a heap of garbage and broken concrete; they treated her with the same equivalence. They stole the clothes off her back. He trailed his fingers up her dirty and bloody thighs, lining lacerations with trembling fingertips, weaving words that broke into a startled sob.

He remembers hearing his mother behind him, speaking in her broken tribal dialect, spinning foreign prayers and curses that fell on deaf ears. She knelt close to the earth and ran her fingers over the sands of the desert, still wet and fresh with cooling blood.

"The poor child," Soda Pop recollects his mother mumbling in her language, "She should have stayed with her kind."

It was just him and Aries now. It will always be just him and Aries.

Soda Pop often tells himself that children only grow up to break your heart; his daughter has her mother's eyes and innocent voice, but she's wayward and outlandish, always gearing to make trouble unlike her mother who often kept to herself; she has her simple beauty and gentle touch, she fabricated innocence – and that often led her into trouble with the boys in the settlement – if she paid them any mind.

His daughter loved listening to holotapes, daydreaming about swing dancing, the women with the pinned up hair and painted faces, and the men who dashed out on the floor with spectator shoes and pinstriped clothing. She often sung along to the strumming of his banjo during dry spells and heat waves, or when her grandmother would sing bygone gospel as she helped her out in the fields – pinning wet clothes on fishing line to dry. She had champagne taste with beer-pocket money.

And, now, he's an empty old man who hasn't heard from his daughter in a long time.

Soda Pop sits on his porch, kicking the dust off his boots against the edge of the stairs; the ghoul's mutt lifts her head, inquisitive to the sound and the slow motion of her master tirelessly adjusting the old cowboy hat on his head. The sun made its dreadful crawl over the sky, the heavens blended in the mass of the wastes, smothered and intoxicated by the shift in time and the old scars of war.

"Helluva heat wave, eh Miss Daisy? Just touchin' on mornin', too," The mutt wagged her tail, yawning in response to her master's tone, and then laying her head back down on her dusty paws. "Think she'll write us today? It's been awhile -." And, what a sad fate, a lonely ex-raider finding companionship in his dog, waiting on the morning courier to make his rounds, hoping to receive a letter from his only daughter.

His daughter is a wild one, chasing neon lights and old stars, parading through a gunfight, stirring the mighty hand of a mad leader. Some days he's proud of her: the wasteland is not always kind to the women folk, especially with the rise of Legion forces and their lust after young breeders to fuel their armies, but she prevailed and did the Legion one better by taking siege over New Vegas.

New Vegas. His baby girl, at a ripe age of twenty, was pushing the envelope in people's pay, reaping benefits and taking lives. Trashcan fires and neon signs bathe the city in a hellish glow; his daughter was in love with the damn capital of sin. The little shack she grew up in dared not compare.

They lived an hour from New Reno, and during Soda Pop's service with Happy Trails Caravan she would constantly beg him if she could help him; he knew he lost her to the city lights. He knew that one day she'll break his heart – constantly mulling over the inevitable.

Some days he's desperately terrified, she makes enemies as fast as she can make friends. The day that she wrote him about meeting Caesar and Malpais Legate, well, he about keeled over. He was up in arms about it. Took him thirty-four days to tread across the Mojave with Daisy to reach his daughter. And, of course, she mocked him for being so worried over her. But she hugged him, told him that she missed him and their little shack; his daughter looked different, the city changed her.

"Hey, ol' man!" A young man hollers at him from the broken concrete of the interstate, waving down Soda Pop's attention; he's holding a cheap grin, pushing back wind-mangled dark hair with his other hand. Daisy lifted her head, moving her sore joints to stand; she stumbled down the stairs, sprinting in the direction of the boy to greet him. "Any word from Aries? I've been listenin' to the radio, hopin' to hear good news."

"Not a peep, Kemper-boy," Soda Pop found Kemper a decent sort; he's been showing up on his property since he was just a boy; his mother was usually too drunk to watch after him, or feed him.

He's a few years older than Aries, made a small living helping the ex-raider and his family around the farm, tending after the family's rundown greenhouse, or herding skinny cattle. He knew his daughter had that sparking crush for the boy, unrequired to a searing point that often left her in tears as a little girl. Now, considering his daughter holds importance in the Mojave, Kemper's been asking a lot after Aries. And, honestly, that amused the old ghoul.

Soda Pop knew Kemper didn't have a snowball's chance at winning his daughter's affection now, not while she's surrounded by important people.

His voice distorts on that note, and he has a hard time deciphering between emotions, or if it's his vocal chords eroding away from the radiation.

"A damn shame," Kemper walked in the direction of the old shack, burying his hands in his dusty trousers, Daisy pranced by his side, barking with excitement. "A courier already passed by the town, I was figurin' he passed by here, too."

"No, sir," Soda Pop mumbled, "But I know my girl, she'll turn up."

-x-

Change comes in like a revelation, but she persevered the hardship, the subtle turmoil to watching the end unravel.

She's tired. So damn tired.

Courier Six is vigilant; she stands at attendances in front of her temporary tent, watching the labor of captives pull at the restraints around their wrists, numbly tugging at the ropes that bit into their flesh. She stands with little emotion to match the occasion; wary tribal children cling to their mother's sides, unaware to change, scanning the layout for their father's to appear. One-by-one, the Legionaries marched the women and children in formation, valuing their worth and then separating them from each other, each checked off as a number in a leather bound ledger.

And, oh, it was cruel.

Two months after leaving Camp Nelson and they're still nestled on the boarder of Arizona. With approach from the Legate, he's slowly chipping away at the Hidebarks' defenses; they're a hostile group unmoved and opposed to Caesar's theatrics at uniting a single nation under his bloody flag.

Six is sick, with good reason behind her lack of empathy; she hurts for these people, it's enough to keep her awake at night – praying, wishing that she could sway the tide of war in her favor, but she's just as stuck as them. And, honestly, she's in no condition for heroics, shy six months pregnant and still biting back on the burn of morning sickness.

The weather today is unforgiving, but she lingers around her assigned destination, mindlessly drifting her hand over the small swell of her abdomen – calculating revenge to the finest detail, keeping her unadulterated hatred to herself; a woman scorned makes her no less weak than a woman who faired rational. She goes on with life wishing she could loop her finger through a trigger and take aim at the core source to her demise; she's too prideful to die by her own hand, too sane to fly off the handle and proclaim the worse. But she watches. Always watching, waiting for the flaw in the Legate's system.

The gales through the valley almost knocks her back a peg, but she stands steadfast, sweating out her exhaustion, witnessing visual heartache in the mix; the soldiers begin prying children away from their mothers in a jerking motion, snatching the children up and pushing them in the hurried grasp of attending Priestesses. They cry and sob and scream for one another in this bizarre fiasco of human evil.

The Legion flag at the center of the encampment whipped violently; a noise that bled with the cries of mothers and children, and the buzz of Legionaries who started calling numbers for a makeshift slave auction, claiming wives and leaving the undesirables for the pyre along with the men who were automatically executed, or for fieldwork. The male children will be brainwashed, groomed and fed through the military rank as fodder for the frontlines. The female children will be pushed into later breeding, Priestess duties, officer's wives, or used as labor.

Amidst the damnation, she sees the Legate; twilight hatred burns in her chest, and when he glances in her direction she frowns, and she is not ashamed to match his impersonal expression. She's furious, and he is not blinded by that fact, merely accepting the inenviable.

The Legate's hands are stained with expensive blood, barely dried and ruby red under the unforgiving sun; the color is revolting, almost blinding and quickly drying. But Courier Six refuses to look away, asserting her dominance between their stare down – Legionaries and slaves blocking their way, but the Legate parts the sea of people with his slow and impending stride. His clothing is stale with blood, fabric lingering with the smell of burning wood and freshly fired ammunition.

Six can only frown harder when he's upon her, towering over her small frame. With blinded vexation, she didn't realize that he's holding something outstretched towards her. An offering, a meaning of peace relations that will go unfulfilled.

"Are you feeling any better," the Legate consoles her in his own unique way, voice rough and strained, muttering under his breath to gander her one-track mind. His blue eyes peer down at her, intent and sharp, stark in contrast compared to the blood on his flesh and his clothing. He coaxes her enough to take the fresh apple from his vile hands, and she turns it over in her possession, mildly surprised – testing the weight in her grasp; any sort of fruit plucked from traveling caravans was a rarity, a damn treat. She's been craving them like crazy, and he must have been listening to one of her frequent rambles.

"You know, they say the Devil's water ain't so sweet, Malpais Legate, these people -," Six turned the apple in her grasp, unsure what to make of the awful situation around her. "Who are they?" They're tribal, of course, she only wanted clarification on their origins, their lost culture under the bindings of Legion expansion.

There's something taunting in his blank expression, unnerving and insidious. The Legate slowly nodded his head, backing her towards the entrance of the tent, and then guiding her inside by the lift of the flap. Six turned her gaze from his, holding her staring displeasure, but following through with his given and silent direction to enter the tent. She held the apple with both of her hands, held close and precious; a silly token that oddly made the world a better place, a sign to numb the pain that life has pageant out for her.

And, when they found shelter in the quiet of the tent, the Legate answered her in his causal tone, too causal for the gravity of the situation – owning and taming human life, holding the same significance as one would own a mutt. Lethal dread struck a raw chord in her, but she swallowed down her sorrow, finding courage in the straightening of her spine and the squaring of her shoulders; tall and broad, harnessing courage in her bleak existence while the odds will always be against her. Niceties didn't deserve forgiveness – certainly not in the trials the Legate made her endure and observe – exposing her to the chaos in colonization, the execution of culture among tribes: the raping, pillaging and blunt murder.

"They're a part of the Hidebarks' tribe, a branch just north to their major encampment. We are so close to conquering them, Aries. With luck, we'll be able to lure out their champion," the Legate notes as lighthearted as he could sound, he's pleased by the reluctance in her fight, the slow motion in her movement to sit at the edge of the cot with the apple in her lap; she balanced the fruit between her hands, fingers slowly dragging over the ripe red flesh.

The Champion, the Legate speaks of, goes by the endearing title: the Monster of the East. She's only seen this notorious man once when she was by the Legate's side, watching the fall of a party of young Legionary soldiers meet tragedy by this beast alone. Honestly, Six could not believe the sheer monstrosity, the almighty height of this human being who lurked the grounds, the abstract strength and will to be able to slowly rip a head clean from the shoulders.

The Monster of the East gave Courier Six a moment's pause, a rare feeling of unbecoming fear flooded her rationality. She remembers listening to the gurgled cry of soldiers down below in the valley beg for their lives. She remembers the amused shrug in this man's shoulders, the slow raise of his hand, and the ungraceful defeat of the soldiers who begged for blissful mercy. She remembers the Legate rounding the rest of his troops after the carnage and marching them down in the valley, hoping to corner the Monster of the East – finding that he was nowhere to be found.

"Does it ever both you," Six begun, spinning her tongue on hollow words for a man who never took them to heart, who never stepped back and analyzed the grand picture in his imperfect strategy. "Separatin' children from their mothers?"

He took a seat next to her on the cot, giving her question some thought. Normally, he would have dismissed her inquiry, but he's been rather giving in his information and his suppressed feelings. When he spoke, she never interrupted, she took everything with a grain of salt.

"The world is a dangerous place to live; not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don't do anything about it," the Legate answered, still mulling over Six's question. "Did you know those who fall under Legion siege typically do not fight back? Those in the wastes already believe that they have no say in the world. They want change, but they are not willing to die freely for it. It makes for easy targets. There are, however, the rare breeds who fight back, who seek after change. The mothers in this raid did not fight back – they stood there like startled cattle – even while we butchered their husbands and older sons in front of them."

"That's not what I'm askin', Malpais Legate," Six retaliated, sharply. "Does it, or does it not bother you?"

"It did at first," the Legate laments, his voice grated on the smoke from past pyres he's lit. However, he held no anger towards her quirk. "Thirty years can numb anyone's soul, I'm afraid. But I was the one who made the calls."

-x-

She gleefully wounds him, not in a physical sense, but mentally.

She plays her routine kindness, touching the side of his jawline, dragging gentle fingertips across his stubble, whimsically scolding him for not keeping up with his shaving and he uses the excuse of being too tired. Still, she smiles up at him; her fingers drift, lulling his senses – pressing her brow against his, respiring on a harmonious note.

He's enraptured by the hum in her throat and the soft laugh she made when she coaxed him enough to lean forward and press his mouth against hers. She catches his eye, holding attention with the worse intentions, sweetly talking to him between breaths – whispering private matters that are only meant for him, and him alone. He pays her with the same respects; rough hands gripped at her waist, running up and down to gander warmth and a sigh, talking with praise in his tone.

She's warm and falsely welcoming, and he knows she's pulling him into a ploy.

He doesn't care.

He doesn't care when her fingers hooked into the fastenings of his bulletproof vest, nor when she slipped it off his shoulders with a heavy thud. He doesn't care when she reached up to tug at the collar of his button up, bringing him closer to her. And, certainly, he didn't mind when one of her hands slipped down between them and roughly palmed at him through his trousers, spinning vulgar words that dripped from her mouth, something he's sure she's picked up from New Vegas.

This reminded him of the time that he had received a letter from one of his couriers, addressed to him, written by her; there's humor in this recollection, pulling out a lipstick-stained napkin from an envelope that only read "Fuck you," in pretty handwriting above the crimson kiss.

She's desperate, and he's still searching for deception in her gray eyes, hoping to catch something amiss before he lets her take this too far. He adored the steady cadence of her voice, in tune and haunting. He always tried for some semblance of gentility when it came to their newer exploits and rough handlings. But she catches him with an unfair advantage and he's willing to believe that he'd walk through Hell with her – even at the expense of knowing that his playful Courier is the Devil in disguise.

She holds his gaze when she sinks to her knees in front of him, and he awkwardly takes a step back to give her room – standing in partial awe. Her fingers brush the leather of his belt, pulling back on his brass buckle till she slid the strap through the loop to free him. Her hands make quick work at popping the button, pulling down the zipper, and hooking her fingers into his waistband – sliding them just enough to peel back the layers. He feigns patience by her soft touch and warm breath against his flesh; how she hovered near – curling her fingers into the loose fabric of his trousers, expecting him to stand idle in a compromising position.

The first swipe of her tongue earns her a startled groan; soft and timid. A rouge hand finds the side of her face, tipping her closer to repeat the motion; his thumb brushes over her cheekbone, asserting pleasantries early in their game. With his free hand, he wraps his fingers around his own shaft, giving himself a few pumps before he guided her over him.

The next swipe of her tongue comes naturally; she can hear the clip of his boots, finding common ground to stand still. And he swears he found small death in her motion. Warm and wet, her soft lips part over his tip.

She strokes his ego with heated words, complimenting him, reverberating vulgar words against his heated flesh.

The Malpais Legate never seemed the desperate sort, certainly not in his seat of power, holding an impersonal expression, with the heavy mentality to simply take. But she taunted him, grinning against him, slowly engulfing him.

His fingers tangle in her hair, coaxing to take him deeper, or as much as she was able; her tongue slides across the underside, eyes closing in concentration, humming with pleasure over the fact that she's topped him again – even while he strived to demonize her existence.

She's killing him with kindness, and when the time comes, he holds her still, keeping her in place by the pull of her hair; he stokes himself over her face, forcing his ungraceful release. Her mouth remains open, enduring his brutish behavior. Warmth gushes against her, feeling the drip of his come sloppily mark her. She can taste him on her tongue, aware of the excess that mapped down her throat and under the lining of her shirt. And, when she's able to breathe, she heaves forward.


End file.
